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B    M    1DD 


BEYOND  THE 
HORIZON 


By 
EUGENE  O'NEILL 


v 


PUBLISHED  FOR 

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KENYON  NU  HOI  SON 
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EUGENE  O'NEILL 
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BEYOND  THE 


HORIZON 


By 
EUGENE  O'NEILL 


PUBLISHED  FOR 

THE  DRAMATISTS  PLAY  SERVICE 

by 
RANDOM  HOUSE      NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1921,  by  Eugene  O'Neill 


CAUTION:  Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby  warned  that 
Beyond  the  Horizon,  being  fully  protected  under  the  copyright 
laws  of  the  United  States  of  America,  the  British  Empire, 
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ing  professional,  amateur,  motion  picture,  recitation,  public 
reading,  radio  broadcasting,  and  the  rights  of  translation  into 
foreign  languages,  are  strictly  reserved.  In  its  present  form 
this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading  public  only.  All  in 
quiries  regarding  this  play  should  be  addressed  to  Richard  J. 
Madden  Play  Company,  at  1501  Broadway,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

The  non-professional  acting  rights  of  Beyond  the  Horizon  are 
controlled  exclusively  by  the  Dramatists  Play  Service,  Inc., 
6  East  39th  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y.,  without  whose  per 
mission  in  writing  no  performance  of  it  may  be  made. 


Manufactured  in  the  United  States  of  America 


/v/5  Q 

i<?zi 

MA/A/ 


CHARACTERS 

JAMES  MAYO,  a  farmer 

KATE   MAYO,   fci*  wz'/e 

CAPTAIN  DICK  SCOTT,  of  Jfce  fcar/c  Sunda,  /ter  brother 

ANDREW  MAYO 

_.  ,,  ^^ow*  of  JAMES  MAYO 

ROBERT  MAYO 

RUTH  ATKINS 

MRS.  ATKINS,  her  widowed  mother 

MARY 

BEN,  a  farm  hand 

DOCTOR  FAWCETT 


ACT  I 

SCENE     I:     The  Road.     Sunset  of  a  day  in  Spring. 
SCENE  II:     The  Farm  House      The  same  night. 

ACT  II 

(Three  years  later) 

SCENE     I:     The  Farm  House.     Noon  of  a  Summer  day. 
SCENE  II:     The  top  of  a  hill  on  the  farm  overlooking  the  sea. 
The  following  day. 

ACT  III 

(Five  years  later) 

SCENE     I:     The  Farm  House.     Dawn  of  a  day  in  late  Fall. 
SCENE  II:     The  Road.     Sunrise. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON 
ACT  ONE 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON 

ACT  ONE 

SCENE  ONE 

A  section  of  country  highway.  The  road  runs  diagonally 
from  the  left,  forward,  to  the  right,  rear,  and  can  be  seen  in 
the  distance  winding  toward  the  horizon  like  a  pale  ribbon 
between  the  low,  rolling  hills  with  their  freshly  plowed  fields 
clearly  divided  from  each  other,  checkerboard  fashion,  by  the 
lines  of  stone  walls  and  rough  snake  fences. 

The  forward  triangle  cut  off  by  the  road  is  a  section  of  a 
field  from  the  dark  earth  of  which  myriad  bright-green  blades 
of  fall-sown  rye  are  sprouting.  A  straggling  line  of  piled 
rocks,  too  low  to  be  called  a  wall,  separates  this  field  from 
the  road. 

To  the  reai  of  the  road  is  a  ditch  with  a  sloping,  grassy 
bank  on  the  far  side.  From  the  center  of  this  an  old,  gnarled 
apple  tree,  just  budding  into  leaf,  strains  its  twisted  branches 
heavenwards,  black  against  thi,  pallor  of  distance.  A  snake- 
fence  sidles  from  left  to  right  along  the  top  of  the  bank,  pass 
ing  beneath  the  apple  tree. 

The  hushed  twilight  of  a  day  in  May  is  just  beginning.  The 
horizon  hills  are  still  rimmed  by  a  faint  line  of  flame,  and  the 
sky  above  them  glows  with  the  crimson  flush  of  the  sunset. 
This  fades  gradually  as  the  action  of  the  scene  progresses. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  ROBERT  MAYO  is  discovered  sitting 

15 


16  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

on  the  fence.  He  is  a  tall,  slender  young  man  of  twenty-three. 
There  is  a  touch  of  the  poet  about  him  expressed  in  his  high 
forehead  and  wide,  dark  eyes.  His  features  are  delicate  and 
refined,  leaning  to  "weakness  in  the  mouth  and  chin.  He  is 
dressed  in  gray  corduroy  trousers  pushed  into  high  laced  boots, 
and  a  blue  flannel  shirt  with  a  bright  colored  tie.  He  is  read 
ing  a  book  by  the  fading  sunset  light.  He  shuts  this,  keeping 
a  finger  in  to  mark  the  place,  and  turns  his  head  toward  the 
horizon,  gazing  out  over  the  fields  and  hills.  His  lips  move  as 
if  he  were  reciting  something  to  himself. 

His  brother  ANDREW  comes  along  the  road  from  the  right, 
returning  from  his  work  in  the  fields.  He  is  twenty-seven  years 
old,  an  opposite  type  to  ROBERT — husky,  sun-bronzed,  hand 
some  in  a  large-featured,  manly  fashion — a  son  of  the  soil, 
intelligent  in  a  shrewd  way,  but  with  nothing  of  the  intellectual 
about  him.  He  wears  overalls,  leather  boots,  a  gray  flannel 
shirt  open  at  the  neck,  and  a  soft,  mud-stained  hat  pushed  back 
on  his  head.  He  stops  to  talk  to  ROBERT,  leaning  on  the  hoe 
he  carries. 

ANDREW,  (seeing  ROBERT  has  not  noticed  his  presence — in 
a  loud  shout)  Hey  there !  (ROBERT  turns  with  a  start.  Seeing 
who  it  is,  he  smiles)  Gosh,  you  do  take  the  prize  for  day 
dreaming!  And  I  see  you've  toted  one  of  the  old  books  along 
with  you.  (He  crosses  the  ditch  and  sits  on  the  fence  near 
his  brother)  What  is  it  this  time — poetry,  I'll  bet.  (He 
reaches  for  the  book)  Let  me  see. 

ROBERT,  (handing  it  to  him  rather  reluctantly)  Look  out 
you  don't  get  it  full  of  dirt. 

ANDREW,      (glancing    at    his    hands)     That    isn't    dirt — it's 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  17 

good  clean  earth.  {He  turns  over  the  pages.  His  eyes  read 
something  and  he  gives  an  exclamation  of  disgust)  Hump ! 
{With  a  provoking  grin  at  his  brother  he  reads  aloud  in  a  dole 
ful,  sing-song  voice)  "I  have  loved  wind  and  light  and  the 
bright  sea.  But  holy  and  most  sacred  night,  not  as  I  love 
and  have  loved  thee."  (He  hands  the  book  back)  Here !  Take 
it  and  bury  it.  I  suppose  it's  that  year  in  college  gave  you 
a  liking  for  that  kind  of  stuff.  I'm  darn  glad  I  stopped  at 
High  School,  or  maybe  I'd  been  crazy  too.  (He  grins  and 
slaps  ROBERT  on  the  back  affectionately)  Imagine  me  reading 
poetry  and  plowing  at  the  same  time !  The  team'd  run  away, 
I'll  bet. 

ROBERT,      (laughing)     Or  picture  me  plowing. 

ANDREW.  You  should  have  gone  back  to  college  last  fall,  like 
I  know  you  wanted  to.  You're  fitted  for  that  sort  of  thing — 
just  as  I  ain't. 

ROBERT.  You  know  why  I  didn't  go  back,  Andy.  Pa  didn't 
like  the  idea,  even  if  he  didn't  say  so;  and  I  know  he  wanted 
the  money  to  use  improving  the  farm.  And  besides,  I'm  not 
keen  on  being  a  student,  just  because  you  see  me  reading  books 
all  the  time.  What  I  want  to  do  now  is  keep  on  moving  so 
that  I  won't  take  root  in  any  one  place. 

ANDREW.  Well,  the  trip  you're  leaving  on  tomorrow  will 
keep  you  moving  all  right.  (At  this  mention  of  the  trip  they 
both  fall  silent.  There  is  a  pause.  Finally  ANDREW  goes  on, 
awkwardly,  attempting  to  speak  casually)  Uncle  says  you'll 
be  gone  three  years. 

ROBERT.     About  that,  he  figures. 

ANDREW,      (moodily)     That's  a  long  time. 

ROBERT.     Not  so  long  when  you   come  to   consider   it.    You 


18  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

know  the  Sunda  sails  around  the  Horn  for  Yokohama  first, 
and  that's  a  long  voyage  on  a  sailing  ship;  and  if  we  go  to 
any  of  the  other  places  Uncle  Dick  mentions — India,  or  Aus 
tralia,  or  South  Africa,  or  South  America — they'll  be  long 
voyages,  too. 

ANDREW.  You  can  have  all  those  foreign  parts  for  all  of 
me.  (After  a  pause)  Ma's  going  to  miss  you  a  lot,  Rob. 

ROBERT.     Yes — and   I'll  miss  her. 

ANDREW.  And  Pa  ain't  feeling  none  too  happy  to  have  you 
go — though  he's  been  trying  not  to  show  it. 

ROBERT.     I  can  see  how  he  feels. 

ANDREW.  And  you  can  bet  that  I'm  not  giving  any  cheers 
about  it.  (He  puts  one  hand  on  the  fence  near  ROBERT). 

ROBERT,  (putting  one  hand  on  top  of  ANDREW'S  with  a 
gesture  almost  of  shyness)  I  know  that,  too,  Andy. 

ANDREW.  I'll  miss  you  as  much  as  anybody,  I  guess.  You 
see,  you  and  I  ain't  like  most  brothers — always  fighting  and 
separated  a  lot  of  the  time,  while  we've  always  been  together 
— just  the  two  of  us.  It's  different  with  us.  That's  why 
it  hits  so  hard,  I  guess. 

ROBERT,  (with  feeling)  It's  just  as  hard  for  me,  Andy — 
believe  that!  I  hate  to  leave  you  and  the  old  folks — but — 

I   feel   I've   got   to.      There's   something  calling  me (He 

points  to  the  horizon)     Oh,  I  can't  just  explain  it  to  you,  Andy. 

ANDREW.  No  need  to,  Rob.  (Angry  at  himself)  Hell! 
You  want  to  go — that's  all  there  is  to  it;  and  I  wouldn't 
have  you  miss  this  chance  for  the  world. 

ROBERT.     It's  fine  of  you  to  feel  that  way,  Andy. 
ANDREW.     Huh!      I'd    be    a    nice    son-of-a-gun    if    I    didn't, 
wouldn't    I?      When    I    know   how   you   need   this    sea   trip    to 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  19 

make  a  new  man  of  you — in  the  body,  I  mean — and  give  you 
your  full  health  back. 

ROBERT,  (a  trifle  impatiently)  All  of  you  seem  to  keep 
harping  on  my  health.  You  were  so  used  to  seeing  me  lying 
around  the  house  in  the  old  days  that  you  never  will  get  over 
the  notion  that  I'm  a  chronic  invalid.  You  don't  realize  how 
I've  bucked  up  in  the  past  few  years.  If  I  had  no  other 
excuse  for  going  on  Uncle  Dick's  ship  but  just  my  health,  I'd 
stay  right  here  and  start  in  plowing. 

ANDREW.  Can't  be  done.  Farming  ain't  your  nature.  There's 
all  the  difference  shown  in  just  the  way  us  two  feel  about  the 
farm.  You — well,  you  like  the  home  part  of  it,  I  expect; 
but  as  a  place  to  work  and  grow  things,  you  hate  it.  Ain't 
that  right? 

ROBERT.  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is.  For  you  it's  different.  You're 
a  Mayo  through  and  through.  You're  wedded  to  the  soil, 
You're  as  much  a  product  of  it  as  an  ear  of  corn  is,  or  a  tree. 
Father  is  the  same.  This  farm  is  his  life-work,  and  he's  happy 
in  knowing  that  another  Mayo,  inspired  by  the  same  love,  will 
take  up  the  work  where  he  leaves  off.  I  can  understand  your 
attitude,  and  Pa's;  and  I  think  it's  wonderful  and  sincere. 
But  I — well,  I'm  not  made  that  way. 

ANDREW.  No,  you  ain't ;  but  when  it  comes  to  understand 
ing,  I  guess  I  realize  that  you've  got  your  own  angle  of  look 
ing  at  things. 

ROBERT,      {musingly)      I  wonder  if  you  do,  really. 

ANDREW,  {confidently)  Sure  I  do.  You've  seen  a  bit  of 
the  world,  enough  to  make  the  farm  seem  small,  and  you've 
got  the  itch  to  see  it  all. 

ROBERT.     It's  more  than  that,  Andy. 


20  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ANDREW.  Oh,  of  course.  I  know  you're  going  to  learn  navi 
gation,  and  all  about  a  ship,  so's  you  can  be  an  officer.  That's 
natural,  too.  There's  fair  pay  in  it,  I  expect,  when  you  con 
sider  that  you've  always  got  a  home  and  grub  thrown  in;  and 
if  you're  set  on  traveling,  you  can  go  anywhere  you're  a  mind 
to  without  paying  fare. 

ROBERT.  (with  a  smile  that  is  half  sad)  It's  more  than 
that,  Andy. 

ANDREW.  Sure  it  is.  There's  always  a  chance  of  a  good  thing 
coming  your  way  in  some  of  those  foreign  ports  or  other.  I've 
heard  there  'are  great  opportunities  for  a  young  fellow  with 
his  eyes  open  in  some  of  those  new  countries  that  are  just 
being  opened  up.  (Jovially)  I'll  bet  that's  what  you've  been 
turning  over  in  your  mind  under  all  your  quietness !  (He  slaps 
his  brother  on  the  back  with  a  laugh)  Well,  if  you  get  to  be 
a  millionaire  all  of  a  sudden,  call  'round  once  in  a  while  and 
I'll  pass  the  plate  to  you.  We  could  use  a  lot  of  money  right 
here  on  the  farm  without  hurting  it  any. 

ROBERT,  (forced  to  laugh)  I've  never  considered  that  prac 
tical  side  of  it  for  a  minute,  Andy. 

ANDREW.     Well,  you  ought  to. 

ROBERT.  No,  I  oughtn't.  (Pointing  to  the  horizon — dreamily) 
Supposing  I  was  to  tell  you  that  it's  just  Beauty  that's  call 
ing  me,  the  beauty  of  the  far  off  and  unknown,  the  mystery 
and  spell  of  the  East  which  lures  me  in  the  books  I've  read,  the 
need  of  the  freedom  of  great  wide  spaces,  the  joy  of  wan 
dering  on  and  on — in  quest  of  the  secret  which  is  hidden  over 
there,  beyond  the  horizon?  Suppose  I  told  you  that  was  the 
one  and  only  reason  for  my  going? 

ANDREW.      I    should   say   you   were   nutty. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  21 

ROBERT,      (frowning)      Don't,  Andy.      I'm  serious. 

ANDREW.  Then  you  might  as  well  stay  here,  because  we've 
got  all  you're  looking  for  right  on  this  farm.  There's  wide 
space  enough,  Lord  knows;  and  you  can  have  all  the  sea  you 
want  by  walking  a  mile  down  to  the  beach;  and  there's  plenty 
of  horizon  to  look  at,  and  beauty  enough  for  anyone,  except 
in  the  winter.  (He  grins)  As  for  the  mystery  and  spell, 
I  haven't  met  'em  yet,  but  they're  probably  lying  around  some- 
wheres.  I'll  have  you  understand  this  is  a  first  class  farm 
with  all  the  fixings.  (He  laughs). 

ROBERT,  (joining  in  the  laughter  in  spite  of  himself)  It's 
no  use  talking  to  you,  you  chump ! 

ANDREW.  You'd  better  not  say  anything  to  Uncle  Dick 
about  spells  and  things  when  you're  on  the  ship.  He'll  likely 
chuck  you  overboard  for  a  Jonah.  (He  jumps  down  from  fence) 
I'd  better  run  along.  I've  got  to  wash  up  some  as  long  as 
Ruth's  Ma  is  coming  over  for  supper. 

ROBERT,      (pointedly — almost   bitterly)      And   Ruth. 

ANDREW,  (confused — looking  everywhere  except  at  ROBERT — 
trying  to  appear  unconcerned)  Yes,  Ruth'll  be  staying  too. 

Well,  I  better  hustle,  I  guess,  and (He  steps  over  the 

ditch  to  the  road  while  he  is  talking). 

ROBERT,  (who  appears  to  be  fighting  some  strong  inward 
emotion — impulsively)  Wait  a  minute,  Andy!  (He  jumps 

down  from  the  fence)  There  is  something  I  want  to (He 

stops  abruptly,  biting  his  lips,  his  face  coloring). 

ANDREW,      (facing  him;  half-defiantly)     Yes? 

ROBERT,  (confusedly)  No never  mind it  doesn't 

matter,  it  was  nothing. 

ANDREW,      (after  a  pause,  during  which  he  stares  fixedly  at 


22  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ROBERT'S  averted  face)  Maybe  I  can  guess what  you  were 

going  to  say but  I  guess  you're  right  not  to  talk  about 

it.  (He  pulls  ROBERT'S  hand  from  his  side  and  grips  it  tensely; 
the  two  brothers  stand  looking  into  each  other's  eyes  for  a 
minute)  We  can't  help  those  things,  Rob.  (1'e  turns  away, 
suddenly  releasing  ROBERT'S  hand)  You'll  be  coming  along 
shortly,  won't  you  ? 

ROBERT,      (dully)     Yes. 

ANDREW.  See  you  later,  then.  (He  walks  off  down  the 
road  to  the  left.  ROBERT  stares  after  him  for  a  moment;  then 
climbs  to  the  fence  rail  again,  and  looks  out  over  the  hills,  an 
expression  of  deep  grief  on  his  face.  After  a  moment  or  so, 
RUTH  enters  hurriedly  from  the  left.  She  is  a  healthy,  blonde, 
out-of-door  girl  of  twenty,  with  a  graceful,  slender  fgure.  Her 
face,  though  inclined  to  roundness,  is  undeniably  pretty,  its 
large  eyes  of  a  deep  blue  set  off  strikingly  by  the  sun-bronzed 
complexion.  Her  small,  regular  features  are  marked  by  a 
certain  strength — an  underlying,  stubborn  fixity  of  purpose  hid 
den  In  the  frankly-appealing  charm  of  her  fresh  youth  fulness. 
She  wears  a  simple  ^hlt^dress  but  no  hat). 

RUTH,      (seeing  him)      Hello,  Rob! 

ROBERT,      (startled)      Hello,  Ruth ! 

RUTH,  (jumps  the  ditch  and  perches  on  the  fence  beside 
him)  I  was  looking  for  you. 

ROBERT,      (pointedly)     Andy  just  left  here. 

RUTH.  I  know.  I  met  him  on  the  road  a  second  ago.  He 
told  me  you  were  here.  (Tenderly  playful)  I  wasn't  look 
ing  for  Andy,  Smarty,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  I  was  looking 
for  you. 

ROBERT.     Because   I'm  going  away  tomorrow? 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  23 

RUTH.  Because  your  mother  was  anxious  to  have  you  come 
home  and  asked  me  to  look  for  you.  I  just  wheeled  Ma  over 
to  your  house. 

ROBERT,      (perfunctorily)     How  is  your  mother? 

RUTH,  (a  shadow  coming  over  her  face)  She's  about  the 
same.  She  never  seems  to  get  any  better  or  any  worse.  Oh, 
Rob,  I  do  wish  she'd  try  to  make  the  best  of  things  that  can't 
be  helped. 

ROBERT.     Has  she  been  nagging  at  you  again? 

RUTH,  (nods  her  headf  and  then  breaks  forth  rebelliously) 
She  never  stops  nagging.  No  matter  what  I  do  for  her  she 

finds  fault.  If  only  Pa  was  still  living (She  stops  as  if 

ashamed  of  her  outburst)  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  complain 
this  way.  (She  sighs)  Poor  Ma,  Lord  knows  it's  hard  enough 
for  her.  I  suppose  it's  natural  to  be  cross  when  you're  not 
able  ever  to  walk  a  step.  Oh,  I'd  like  to  be  going  away  some 
place — like  you ! 

ROBERT.  It's  hard  to  stay — and  equally  hard  to  go,  some 
times. 

RUTH.  There!  If  I'm  not  the  stupid  body!  I  swore  I 
wasn't  going  to  speak  about  your  trip — until  after  you'd  gone; 
and  there  I  go,  first  thing! 

ROBERT.     Why  didn't  you   want  to   speak  of  it? 

RUTH.  Because  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  this  last  night  you're 
here.  Oh,  Rob,  I'm  going  to — we're  all  going  to  miss  you  so 
awfully.  Your  mother  is  going  around  looking  as  if  she'd  burst 
out  crying  any  minute.  You  ought  to  know  how  I  feel.  Andy 
and  you  and  I — why  it  seems  as  if  we'd  always  been  together. 

ROBERT,      (with  a  wry  attempt  at  a  smile)      You  and  Andy 


24  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

will  still  have  each  other.  It'll  be  harder  for  me  without 
anyone. 

RUTH.  But  you'll  have  new  sights  and  new  people  to  take 
your  mind  off;  while  we'll  be  here  with  the  old,  familiar  place 
to  remind  us  every  minute  of  the  day.  It's  a  shame  you're 
going — just  at  this  time,  in  spring,  when  everything  is  get 
ting  so  nice.  (With  a  sigh)  I  oughtn't  to  talk  that  way  when 
I  know  going's  the  best  thing  for  you.  You're  bound  to  find 
all  sorts  of  opportunities  to  get  on,  your  father  says. 

ROBERT,  (heatedly)  I  don't  give  a  damn  about  that!  I 
wouldn't  take  a  voyage  across  the  road  for  the  best  opportu 
nity  in  the  world  of  the  kind  Pa  thinks  of.  (Pie  smiles  at  his 
own  irritation)  Excuse  me,  Ruth,  for  getting  worked  up  over 
it;  but  Andy  gave  me  an  overdose  of  the  practical  considera 
tions. 

RUTH,  (slowly,  puzzled)  Well,  then,  if  it  isn't (With 

sudden  intensity)  Oh,  Rob,  why  do  you  want  to  go? 

ROBERT,  (turning  to  her  quickly,  in  surprise — slowly)  Why 
do  you  ask  that,  Ruth? 

RUTH,  (dropping  her  eyes  before  his  searching  glance)  Be 
cause (Lamely)  It  seems  such  a  shame. 

ROBERT,      (insistently)      Why? 

RUTH.     Oh,  because — everything. 

ROBERT.  I  could  hardly  back  out  now,  even  if  I  wanted  to. 
And  I'll  be  forgotten  before  you  know  it. 

RUTH,  (indignantly)  You  won't !  I'll  never  forget 

(She  stops  and  turns  away  to  hide  her  confusion). 

ROBERT,      (softly)      Will  you  promise  me  that? 

RUTH,  (evasively)  Of  course.  It's  mean  of  you  to  think 
that  any  of  us  would  forget  so  easily. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  25 

ROBERT,      (disappointedly}      Oh! 

RUTH,  (with  an  attempt  at  lightness)  But  you  haven't  told 
me  your  reason  for  leaving  yet? 

ROBERT,  (moodily)  I  doubt  if  you'll  understand.  It's  dif 
ficult  to  explain,  even  to  myself.  Either  you  feel  it,  or  you 
don't.  I  can  remember  being  conscious  of  it  first  when  I  was 
only  a  kid — you  haven't  forgotten  what  a  sickly  specimen  I 
was  then,  in  those  days,  have  you? 

RUTH,      (with  a  shudder)     Let's  not  think  about  them. 

ROBERT.  You'll  have  to,  to  understand.  Well,  in  those  days, 
when  Ma  was  fixing  meals,  she  used  to  get  me  out  of  the  way 
by  pushing  my  chair  to  the  west  window  and  telling  me  to  look 
out  and  be  quiet.  That  wasn't  hard.  I  guess  I  was  always 
quiet. 

RUTH,  (compassionately)  Yes,  you  always  were — and  you 
suffering  so  much,  too ! 

ROBERT,  (musingly)  So  I  used  to  stare  out  over  the  fields 
to  the  hills,  out  there — (He  points  to  the  horizon)  and  some 
how  after  a  time  I'd  forget  any  pain  I  was  in,  and  start 
dreaming.  I  knew  the  sea  was  over  beyond  those  hills, — the 
folks  had  told  me — and  I  used  to  wonder  what  the  sea  was 
like,  and  try  to  form  a  picture  of  it  in  my  mind.  (With  a 
smile)  There  was  all  the  mystery  in  the  world  to  me  then 
about  that — far-off  sea — and  there  still  is !  It  called  to  me 
then  just  as  it  does  now.  (After  a  slight  pause)  And  other 
times  my  eyes  would  follow  this  road,  winding  off  into  the 
distance,  toward  the  hills,  as  if  it,  too,  was  searching  for  the 
sea.  And  I'd  promise  myself  that  when  I  grew  up  and  was 
strong,  I'd  follow  that  road,  and  it  and  I  would  find  the  sea 


26  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

together.  (With  a  smile)  You  see,  my  making  this  trip  is 
only  keeping  that  promise  of  long  ago. 

RUTH  (charmed  by  his  low,  musical  voice  telling  the  dreams 
of  his  childhood)  Yes,  I  see. 

ROBERT.  Those  were  the  only  happy  moments  of  my  life 
then,  dreaming  there  at  the  window.  I  liked  to  be  all  alone 
— those  times.  I  got  to  know  all  the  different  kinds  of  sun 
sets  by  heart.  And  all  those  sunsets  took  place  over  there — 
(He  points)  beyond  the  horizon.  So  gradually  I  came  to  be 
lieve  that  all  the  wonders  of  the  world  happened  on  the  other 
side  of  those  hills.  There  was  the  home  of  the  good  fairies 
who  performed  beautiful  miracles.  I  believed  in  fairies  then. 
(With  a  smile)  Perhaps  I  still  do  believe  in  them.  Anyway, 
in  those  days  they  were  real  enough,  and  sometimes  I  could 
actually  hear  them  calling  to  me  to  come  out  and  play  with 
them,  dance  with  them  down  the  road  in  the  dusk  in  a  game 
of  hide-and-seek  to  find  out  where  the  sun  was  hiding  himself. 
They  sang  their  little  songs  to  me,  songs  that  told  of  all  the 
wonderful  things  they  had  in  their  home  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hills;  and  they  promised  to  show  me  all  of  them,  if  I'd 
only  come,  come !  But  I  couldn't  come  then,  and  I  used  to 
cry  sometimes  and  Ma  would  think  I  was  in  pain.  (He  breaks 
off  suddenly  with  a  laugh)  That's  why  I'm  going  now,  I 
suppose.  For  I  can  still  hear  them  calling.  But  the  horizon 
is  as  far  away  and  as  luring  as  ever.  (He  turns  to  her — 
softly)  Do  you  understand  now,  Ruth? 

RUTH,     (spellbound,  in  a  whisper)     Yes. 

ROBERT.     You  feel  it  then? 

RUTH.  Yes,  yes,  I  do!  (Unconsciously  she  snuggles  close 
against  his  side.  His  arm  steals  about  her  as  if  he  were  not 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  27 

aware  of  the  action}  Oh,  Rob,  how  could  I  help  feeling  it? 
You  tell  things  so  beautifully! 

ROBERT,  {suddenly  realizing  that  his  arm  is  around  her, 
and  that  her  head  is  resting  on  his  shoulder,  gently  takes  his 
arm  away.  RUTH,  brought  back  to  herself,  is  overcome  with 
confusion}  So  now  you  know  why  I'm  going.  It's  for  that 
reason — that  and  one  other. 

RUTH.     You've  another?      Then  you  must  tell  me  that,  too. 

ROBERT,  (looking  at  her  searchingly.  She  drops  her  eyes 
before  his  gaze}  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to !  You'll  promise  not 
to  be  angry — whatever  it  is? 

RUTH,      {softly,  her  face  still  averted}      Yes,   I  promise. 

ROBERT,      {simply}     I  love  you.     That's  the  other  reason. 

RUTH,      (hiding  her  face  in  her  hands}     Oh,  Rob! 

ROBERT.  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you,  but  I  feel  I  have  to.  It 
can't  matter  now  that  I'm  going  so  far  away,  and  for  so 
long — perhaps  forever.  I've  loved  you  all  these  years,  but 
the  realization  never  came  'til  I  agreed  to  go  away  with  Uncle 
Dick.  Then  I  thought  of  leaving  you,  and  the  pain  of  that 
thought  revealed  to  me  in  a  flash — that  I  loved  you,  had  loved 
you  as  long  as  I  could  remember.  {He  gently  pulls  one  of 
RUTH'S  hands  away  from  her  face}  You  mustn't  mind  my 
telling  you  this,  Ruth.  I  realize  how  impossible  it  all  is — 
and  I  understand;  for  the  revelation  of  my  own  love  seemed 
to  open  my  eyes  to  the  love  of  others.  I  saw  Andy's  love  for 
you — and  I  knew  that  you  must  love  him. 

RUTH,  {breaking  out  stormily}  I  don't !  I  don't  love  Andy ! 
I  don't!  (ROBERT  stares  at  her  in  stupid  astonishment.  RUTH 
weeps  hysterically}  Whatever — put  such  a  fool  notion  into — 
into  your  head?  (She  suddenly  throws  her  arms  about  his  neck 


28  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

and  hides  her  head  on  his  shoulder}  Oh,  Rob !  Don't  go 
away!  Please!  You  mustn't,  now!  You  can't!  I  won't  let 
you!  It'd  break  my — my  heart ! 

ROBERT.  (The  expression  of  stupid  bewilderment  giving  way 
to  one  of  overwhelming  joy.  He  presses  her  close  to  him — 
slowly  and  tenderly}  Do  you  mean  that — that  you  love  me? 

RUTH,  (sobbing}  Yes,  yes — of  course  I  do — what  d'you 
s'pose?  (She  lifts  up  her  head  and  looks  into  his  eyes  with 
a  tremulous  smile}  You  stupid  thing!  (He  kisses  her}  I've 
loved  you  right  along. 

ROBERT,  (mystified}  But  you  and  Andy  were  always  to 
gether  ! 

RUTH.  Because  you  never  seemed  to  want  to  go  any  place 
with  me.  You  were  always  reading  an  old  book,  and  not  pay 
ing  any  attention  to  me.  I  was  too  proud  to  let  you  see  I 
cared  because  I  thought  the  year  you  had  away  to  college 
had  made  you  stuck-up,  and  you  thought  yourself  too  educated 
to  waste  any  time  on  me. 

ROBERT,  (kissing  her}  And  I  was  thinking (With  a 

laugh}  What  fools  we've  both  been! 

RUTH,  (overcome  by  a  sudden  fear}  You  won't  go  away 
on  the  trip,  will  you,  Rob?  You'll  tell  them  you  can't  go  on 
account  of  me,  won't  you?  You  can't  go  now!  You  can't! 

ROBERT,      (bewildered}      Perhaps — you  can  come  too. 

RUTH.  Oh,  Rob,  don't  be  so  foolish.  You  know  I  can't. 
Who'd  take  care  of  ma?  Don't  you  see  I  couldn't  go — on  her 
account?  (She  clings  to  him  imploringly}  Please  don't  go — 
not  now.  Tell  them  you've  decided  not  to.  They  won't  mind. 
I  know  your  mother  and  father '11  be  glad.  They'll  all  be.  They 
don't  want  you  to  go  so  far  away  from  them.  Please,  Rob! 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  29 

We'll  be  so  happy  here  together  where  it's  natural  and  we  know 
things.  Please  tell  me  you  won't  go! 

ROBERT,  {face  tr  face  with  a  definite,  final  decision,  betrays 
the  conflict  going  on  within  him)  But — Ruth — I — Uncle 
Dick 

RUTH.  He  won't  mind  when  he  knows  it's  for  your  happiness 
to  stay.  How  could  he?  (As  ROBERT  remains  silent  she  bursts 
into  sobs  again)  Oh,  Rob!  And  you  said — you  loved  me! 

ROBERT,  (conquered  by  this  appeal — an  irrevocable  decision 
in  his  voice)  I  won't  go,  Ruth.  I  promise  you.  There !  Don't 
cry !  (He  presses  her  to  him,  stroking  her  hair  tenderly.  After 
a  pause  he  speaks  with  happy  hopefulness)  Perhaps  after  all 
Andy  was  right — righter  than  he  knew — when  he  said  I  could 
find  all  the  things  I  was  seeking  for  here,  at  home  on  the  farm. 
I  think  love  must  have  been  the  secret — the  secret  that  called 
to  me  from  over  the  world's  rim — the  secret  beyond  every 
horizon;  and  when  I  did  not  come,  it  came  to  me.  (He  clasps 
RUTH  to  him  fiercely)  Oh,  Ruth,  our  love  is  sweeter  than  any 
distant  dream!  (He  kisses  her  passionately  and  steps  to  the 
ground,  lifting  RUTH  in  his  arms  and  carrying  her  to  the  road 
where  he  puts  her  down). 

RUTH,      (with  a  happy  laugh)      My,  but  you're  strong!-*" 

ROBERT.     Come !     We'll  go  and  tell  them  at  once. 

RUTH,  (dismayed)  Oh,  no,  don't,  Rob,  not  'til  after  I've 
gone.  There'd  be  bound  to  be  such  a  scene  with  them  all 
together. 

ROBERT,  (kissing  her — gayly)  As  you  like — little  Miss  Com 
mon  Sense ! 

RUTH.     Let's  go,  then.      (She  takts  his  hand,  and  they  start 


30  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

to  go  off  left.  ROBERT  suddenly  stops  and  turns  as  though  for 
a  last  look  at  the  hills  and  the  dying  sunset  flush). 

ROBERT,  (looking  upward  and  pointing)  See!  The  first 
star.  (He  bends  down  and  kisses  her  tenderly)  Our  star! 

RUTH,  (in  a  soft  murmur)  Yes.  Our  very  own  star.  (They 
stand  for  a  moment  looking  up  at  it,  their  arms  around  each 
other.  Then  RUTH  takes  his  hand  again  and  starts  to  lead  him 
away)  Come,  Rob,  let's  go.  (His  eyes  are  fixed  again  on  the 
horizon  as  he  half  turns  to  follow  her.  RUTH  urges)  We'll  be 
late  for  supper,  Rob. 

ROBERT,  (shakes  his  head  impatiently ,  as  though  he  were 
throwing  off  some  disturbing  thought — with  a  laugh)  All  right. 
We'll  run  then.  Come  on!  (They  run  off  laughing  as 

(The  Curtain  Falls) 


ACT  ONE 

SCENE  Two 

The  sitting  room  of  the  Mayo  farm  house  about  nine 
o'clock  the  same  night.  On  the  left,  two  windows  looking  out 
on  the  fields.  Against  the  wall  between  the  windows,  an  old- 
fashioned  walnut  desk.  In  the  left  corner,  rear,  a  sideboard 
with  a  mirror.  In  the  rear  wall  to  the  right  of  the  sideboard^ 
a  window  looking  out  on  the  road.  Next  to  the  window  a  door 
leading  out  into  the  yard.  Farther  right,  a  black  horse-hair 
sofa,  and  another  door  opening  on  a  bedroom.  In  the  corner, 
a  straight-backed  chair.  In  the  right  wall,  near  the  middle,  an 
open  doorway  leading  to  the  kitchen.  Farther  forward  a  double- 
heater  stove  with  coal  scuttle,  etc.  In  the  center  of  the  newly 
carpeted  floor,  an  oak  dining-room  table  with  a  red  cover.  In 
the  center  of  the  table,  a  large  oil  reading  lamp.  Four  chairs, 
three  rockers  with  crocheted  tidies  on  their  backs,  and  one 
straight-backed,  are  placed  about  the  table.  The  walls  are 
papered  a  dark  red  with  a  scrolly-figured  pattern. 

Everything  in  the  room  is  clean,  well-kept,  and  in  its  exact 
place,  yet  there  is  no  suggestion  of  primness  about  the  whole. 
Rather  the  atmosphere  is  one  of  the  orderly  comfort  of  a  simple, 
hard-earned  prosperity,  enjoyed  and  maintained  by  the  family 
as  a  unit. 

JAMES  MAYO,  his  wife,  her  brother,  CAPTAIN  DICK  SCOTT,  and 
ANDREW  are  discovered.  MAYO  is  his  son  ANDREW  over  again 

in  body  and  face — an  ANDREW  sixty-five  years  old  with  a  shortt 

31 


32  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

square,  white  beard.  MRS.  MAYO  is  a  slight,  round-faced,  rather 
prim-looking  woman  of  fifty-fve  who  had  once  been  a  school 
teacher.  The  labors  of  a  farmer's  wife  have  bent  but  not  broken 
her,  and  she  retains  a  certain  refinement  of  movement  and  ex 
pression  foreign  to  the  MAYO  part  of  the  family.  Whatever  of 
resemblance  ROBERT  has  to  his  parents  may  be  traced  to  her. 
Her  brother,  the  CAPTAIN,  is  short  and  stocky,  with  a  weather- 
beaten,  jovial  face  and  a  white  mustache — a  typical  old  salt, 
loud  of  voice  and  given  to  gesture.  He  is  fifty-eight  years  old. 

JAMES  MAYO  sits  in  front  of  the  table.  He  wears  spectacles, 
and  a  farm  journal  which  he  has  been  reading  lies  in  his  lap. 
THE  CAPTAIN  leans  forward  from  a  chair  in  the  rear,  his  hands 
on  the  table  in  front  of  him.  ANDREW  is  tilted  back  on  the 
straight-backed  chair  to  the  left,  his  chin  sunk  forward  on  his 
chest,  staring  at  the  carpet,  preoccupied  and  frowning. 

As  the  Curtain  rises  the  CAPTAIN  is  just  finishing  the  relation 
of  some  sea  episode.  The  others  are  pretending  an  interest 
which  is  belied  by  the  absent-minded  expressions  on  their  faces. 

THE  CAPTAIN,  (chuckling)  And  that  mission  woman,  she 
hails  me  on  the  dock  as  I  was  acomin'  ashore,  and  she  says — 
with  her  silly  face  all  screwed  up  serious  as  judgment — "Cap 
tain,"  she  says,  "would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  where  the 
sea-gulls  sleeps  at  nights?"  Blow  me  if  them  warn't  her  exact 
words !  (He  slaps  the  table  with  the  palm  of  his  hands  and 
laughs  loudly.  The  others  force  smiles}  Ain't  that  just  like  a 
fool  woman's  question?  And  I  looks  at  her  serious  as  I  could, 
"Ma'm,"  says  I,  "I  couldn't  rightly  answer  that  question.  I  ain't 
never  seed  a  sea-gull  in  his  bunk  yet.  The  next  time  I  hears  one 
snorin',"  I  says,  "I'll  make  a  note  of  where  he's  turned  in,  and 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  33 

write  you  a  letter  'bout  it."  And  then  she  calls  me  a  fool  real 
spiteful  and  tacks  away  from  me  quick,  (tie  laughs  again  up 
roariously}  So  I  got  rid  of  her  that  way.  (The  others  smile 
but  immediately  relapse  into  expressions  of  gloom  again}. 

MRS.  MAYO.  (absent-mindedly — feeling  that  she  has  to  say 
something)  But  when  it  comes  to  that,  where  do  sea-gulls  sleep, 
Dick? 

SCOTT,  (slapping  the  table)  Ho!  Ho!  Listen  to  her,  James. 
'Nother  one!  Well,  if  that  don't  beat  all  hell — 'scuse  me  for 
cussin',  Kate. 

MAYO,  (with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes)  They  unhitch  their 
wings,  Katey,  and  spreads  'em  out  on  a  wave  for  a  bed. 

SCOTT.  And  then  they  tells  the  fish  to  whistle  to  'em  when 
it's  time  to  turn  out.  Ho  !  Ho ! 

MRS.  MAYO,  (with  a  forced  smile)  You  men  folks  are  too 
smart  to  live,  aren't  you?  (She  resumes  her  knitting.  MAYO 
pretends  to  read  his  paper;  ANDREW  stares  at  the  floor). 

SCOTT.  (looks  from  one  to  the  other  of  them  with  a  puzzled 
air.  Finally  he  is  unable  to  bear  the  thick  silence  a  minute 
longer,  and  blurts  out)  :  You  folks  look  as  if  you  was  settin' 
up  with  a  corpse.  (With  exaggerated  concern)  God  A'mighty, 
there  ain't  anyone  dead,  be  there? 

MAYO,  (sharply)  Don't  play  the  dunce,  Dick!  You  know 
as  well  as  we  do  there  ain't  no  great  cause  to  be  feelin'  chipper. 

SCOTT,  (argumentatively)  And  there  ain't  no  cause  to  be 
wearin'  mourning,  either,  I  can  make  out. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (indignantly)  How  can  you  talk  that  way, 
Dick  Scott,  when  you're  taking  our  Robbie  away  from  us,  in 
tfie  middle  of  the  night,  you  might  say,  just  to  get  on  that  old 


34  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

boat  of  yours  on  time!  I  think  you  might  wait  until  morning 
when  he's  had  his  breakfast. 

SCOTT,  (appealing  to  the  others  hopelessly)  Ain't  that  a 
woman's  way  o'  seein'  things  for  you?  God  A'mighty,  Kate, 
I  can't  give  orders  to  the  tide  that  it's  got  to  be  high  just  when 
it  suits  me  to  have  it.  I  ain't  gettin'  no  fun  out  o'  missin'  sleep 
and  leavin'  here  at  six  bells  myself.  (Protestingly)  And  the 
Sunda  ain't  an  old  ship — leastways,  not  very  old — and  she's 
good's  she  ever  was. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (her  lips  trembling)  I  wish  Robbie  weren't 
going. 

MAYO,  (looking  at  her  over  his  glasses — consolingly)  There, 
Katey ! 

MRS.  MAYO,      (rebelliously)     Well,  I  do  wish  he  wasn't! 

SCOTT.  You  shouldn't  be  taking  it  so  hard,  's  far  as  I  kin 
see.  This  vige'll  make  a  man  of  him.  I'll  see  to  it  he  learns 
how  to  navigate,  'n'  study  for  a  mate's  c'tificate  right  off — and 
it'll  give  him  a  trade  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  if  he  wants  to  travel. 

MRS.  MAYO.  But  I  don't  want  him  to  travel  all  his  life. 
You've  got  to  see  he  comes  home  when  this  trip  is  over.  Then 
he'll  be  all  well,  and  he'll  want  to — to  marry — (ANDREW  sits 
forward  in  his  chair  with  an  abrupt  movement) — and  settle  down 
right  here.  (She  stares  down  at  the  knitting  in  her  lap — after 
a  pause)  I  never  realized  how  hard  it  was  going  to  be  for  me 
to  have  Robbie  go — or  I  wouldn't  have  considered  it  a  minute. 

SCOTT.  It  ain't  no  good  goin'  on  that  way,  Kate,  now  it's 
all  settled. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (on  the  verge  of  tears)  It's  all  right  for  you 
to  talk.  You've  never  had  any  children.  You  don't  know 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  35 

what  it  means  to  be  parted  from  them — and  Robbie  my  youngest, 
too.  (ANDREW  frowns  and  fidgets  in  his  chair). 

ANDREW,  (suddenly  turning  to  them)  There's  one  thing 
none  of  you  seem  to  take  into  consideration — that  Rob  wants 
to  go.  He's  dead  set  on  it.  He's  been  dreaming  over  this  trip 
ever  since  it  was  first  talked  about.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  him 
not  to  have  him  go.  (A  sudden  uneasiness  seems  to  strike  him) 
At  least,  not  if  he  still  feels  the  same  way  about  it  he  did 
when  he  was  talking  to  me  this  evening. 

MAYO,  (with  an  air  of  decision)  Andy's  right,  Katey.  That 
ends  all  argyment,  you  can  see  that.  (Looking  at  his  big  silver 
watch)  Wonder  what's  happened  to  Robert?  He's  been  gone 
long  enough  to  wheel  the  widder  to  home,  certain.  He  can't 
be  out  dreamin'  at  the  stars  his  last  night. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (a  bit  reproachfully)  Why  didn't  you  wheel 
Mrs.  Atkins  back  tonight,  Andy  ?  You  usually  do  when  she  and 
Ruth  come  over. 

ANDREW,  (avoiding  her  eyes)  I  thought  maybe  Robert 
wanted  to  tonight.  He  offered  to  go  right  away  when  they 
were  leaving. 

MRS.  MAYO.     He  only  wanted  to  be  polite. 

ANDREW,  (gets  to  his  feet)  Well,  he'll  be  right  back,  1 
guess.  (He  turns  to  his  father)  Gue^s  I'll  go  take  a  look 
at  the  black  cow,  Pa — see  if  she's  ailing  any. 

MAYO.  Yes — better  had,  son.  (ANDREW  goes  into  the  kitchen 
on  the  right). 

SCOTT,  (as  he  goes  out — in  a  low  tone)  There's  the  boy 
that  would  make  a  good,  strong  sea-farin'  man — if  he'd  a  mind  to. 

MAYO,  (sharply)  Don't  you  put  no  such  fool  notions  in 
Andy's  head,  Dick — or  you  'n'  me's  goin'  to  fall  out.  (Then  he 


36  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

smiles')  You  couldn't  tempt  him,  no  ways.  Andy's  a  Mayo 
bred  in  the  bone,  and  he's  a  born  farmer,  and  a  damn  good  one, 
too.  He'll  live  and  die  right  here  on  this  farm,  like  I  expect  to. 
(With  proud  confidence)  And  he'll  make  this  one  of  the  slick 
est,  best-payin'  farms  in  the  state,  too,  afore  he  gits  through! 

SCOTT.     Seems  to  me  it's  a  pretty  slick  place  right  now. 

MAYO,  (shaking  his  head)  It's  too  small.  We  need  more 
land  to  make  it  amount  to  much,  and  we  ain't  got  the  capital 
to  buy  it.  (ANDREW  enters  from  the  kitchen.  His  hat  is  on, 
and  he  carries  a  lighted  lantern  in  his  hand.  He  goes  to  the 
door  in  the  rear  leading  out). 

ANDREW,  (opens  the  door  and  pauses)  Anything  else  you 
can  think  of  to  be  done,  Pa  ? 

MAYO.  No,  nothin'  I  know  of.  (ANDREW  goes  out,  shutting 
the  door}. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (after  a  pause}  What's  come  over  Andy  tonight, 
I  wonder?  He  acts  so  strange. 

MAYO.  He  does  seem  sort  o'  glum  and  out  of  sorts.  It's 
'count  o'  Robert  leavin',  I  s'pose.  (To  SCOTT)  Dick,  you 
wouldn't  believe  how  them  boys  o'  mine  sticks  together.  They 
ain't  like  most  brothers.  They've  been  thick  as  thieves  all  their 
lives,  with  nary  a  quarrel  I  kin  remember. 

SCOTT.  No  need  to  tell  me  that.  I  can  see  how  they  take 
to  each  other. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (pursuing  her  train  of  thought}  Did  you  notice, 
James,  how  queer  everyone  was  at  supper?  Robert  seemed 
stirred  up  about  something;  and  Ruth  was  so  flustered  and 
giggly;  and  Andy  sat  there  dumb,  looking  as  if  he'd  lost  his 
best  friend;  and  all  of  them  only  nibbled  at  their  food. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  37 

MAYO.  Guess  they  was  all  thinkin'  about  tomorrow,  same 
as  us. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (shaking  her  head)  No.  I'm  afraid  somethin's 
happened — somethin'  else. 

MAYO.     You  mean — 'bout  Ruth? 

MRS.  MAYO.     Yes. 

MAYO,  (after  a  pause — frowning)  I  hope  her  and  Andy 
ain't  had  a  serious  fallin'-out.  I  always  sorter  hoped  they'd 
hitch  up  together  sooner  or  later.  What  d'you  say,  Dick?  Don't 
you  think  them  two'd  pair  up  well? 

SCOTT,  (nodding  his  head  approvingly)  A  sweet,  whole 
some  couple  they'd  make. 

MAYO.  It'd  be  a  good  thing  for  Andy  in  more  ways  than 
one.  I  ain't  what  you'd  call  calculatin'  generally,  and  I  b'lieve 
in  lettin'  young  folks  run  their  affairs  to  suit  themselves;  but 
there's  advantages  for  both  o'  them  in  this  match  you  can't 
overlook  in  reason.  The  Atkins  farm  is  right  next  to  ourn. 
Jined  together  they'd  make  a  jim-dandy  of  a  place,  with  plenty 
o'  room  to  work  in.  And  bein'  a  widder  with  only  a  daughter, 
and  laid  up  all  the  time  to  boot,  Mrs.  Atkins  can't  do  nothin' 
with  the  place  as  it  ought  to  be  done.  She  needs  a  man,  a 
first-class  farmer,  to  take  hold  o'  things;  and  Andy's  just  the  one. 

MRS.    MAYO,      (abruptly)      I    don't    think    Ruth    loves    Andy. 

MAYO.  You  don't?  Well,  maybe  a  woman's  eyes  is  sharper 
in  such  things,  but — they're  always  together.  And  if  she  don't 
love  him  now,  she'll  likely  come  around  to  it  in  time.  (As  MRS. 
MAYO  shakes  her  head)  You  seem  mighty  fixed  in  your  opinion, 
Katey.  How  d'you  know  ? 

MRS.  MAYO.     It's  just — what  I  feel. 

MAYO,      (a  light  breaking  over  him)      You  don't  mean  to  say 


38  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

— (MRS.  MAYO  nods.  MAYO  chuckles  scornfully)  Shucks !  I'm 
losin'  my  respect  for  your  eyesight,  Katey.  Why,  Robert  ain't 
got  no  time  for  Ruth,  'cept  as  a  friend ! 

MRS.  MAYO,  (warningly)  Sss-h-h  !  (The  door  from  the  yard 
opens,  and  ROBERT  enters.  He  is  smiling  happily,  and  humming 
a  song  to  himself,  but  as  he  comes  into  the  room  an  undercurrent 
of  nervous  uneasiness  manifests  itself  in  his  bearing). 

MAYO.  So  here  you  be  at  last!  (ROBERT  comes  forward  and 
sits  on  ANDY'S  chair.  MAYO  smiles  slyly  at  his  wife)  What 
have  you  been  doin'  all  this  time — countin'  the  stars  to  see  if 
they  all  come  out  right  and  proper? 

ROBERT.     There's  only  one  I'll  ever  look  for  any  more,   Pa. 

MAYO,  (reproachfully)  You  might've  even  not  wasted  time 
lookin'  for  that  one — your  last  night. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (as  if  she  were  speaking  to  a  child)  You  ought 
to  have  worn  your  coat  a  sharp  night  like  this,  Robbie. 

SCOTT,  (disgustedly)  God  A'mighty,  Kate,  you  treat  Rob 
ert  as  if  he  was  one  year  old ! 

MRS.  MAYO,  (notices  ROBERT'S  nervous  uneasiness)  You 
look  all  worked  up  over  something,  Robbie.  What  is  it? 

ROBERT,  (swallowing  hard,  looks  quickly  from  one  to  the 
other  of  them — then  begins  determinedly)  Yes,  there  is  some 
thing — something  I  must  tell  you — all  of  you.  (As  he  begins 
to  talk  ANDREW  enters  quietly  from  the  rear,  closing  the  door 
behind  him,  and  setting  the  lighted  lantern  on  the  floor.  He 
remains  standing  by  the  door,  his  arms  folded,  listening  to 
ROBERT  with  a  repressed  expression  of  pain  on  his  face.  ROBERT 
is  so  much  taken  up  with  what  he  is  going  to  say  that  he  does 
not  notice  ANDREW'S  presence.)  Something  I  discovered  only  this 
evening — very  beautiful  and  wonderful — something  I  did  not 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  39 

take  into  consideration  previously  because  I  hadn't  dared  to 
hope  that  such  happiness  could  ever  come  to  me.  (Appealingly) 
You  must  all  remember  that  fact,  won't  you  ? 

MAYO,      (frowning)     Let's  get  to  the  point,  son. 

ROBERT,  (with  a  trace  of  defiance)  Well,  the  point  is  this, 
Pa:  I'm  not  going — I  mean — I  can't  go  tomorrow  with  Uncle 
Dick — or  at  any  future  time,  either. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (with  a  sharp  sigh  of  joyful  relief)  Oh,  Robbie, 
I'm  so  glad ! 

MAYO,  (astounded)  You  ain't  serious,  be  you,  Robert?  (Se 
verely)  Seems  to  me  it's  a  pretty  late  hour  in  the  day  for  you 
to  be  upscttin'  all  your  plans  so  sudden ! 

ROBERT.  I  asked  you  to  remember  that  until  this  evening  I 
didn't  know  myself.  I  had  never  dared  to  dream — 

MAYO,      (irritably)      What  is  this  foolishness  you're  talkin'  of? 

ROBERT,  (flushing)  Ruth  told  me  this  evening  that — she 
loved  me.  It  was  after  I'd  confessed  I  loved  her.  I  told  her 
I  hadn't  been  conscious  of  my  love  until  after  the  trip  had 
been  arranged,  and  I  realized  it  would  mean — leaving  her. 
That  was  the  truth.  I  didn't  know  until  then.  (As  if  justifying 
himself  to  the  others)  I  hadn't  intended  telling  her  anything 
but — suddenly — I  felt  I  must.  I  didn't  think  it  would  matter, 
because  I  was  going  away.  And  I  thought  she  loved — someone 
else.  (Slowly — his  eyes  shining)  And  then  she  cried  and  said 
it  was  I  she'd  loved  all  the  time,  but  I  hadn't  seen  it. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (rushes  over  and  throws  her  arms  about  him) 
I  knew  it!  I  was  just  telling  your  father  when  you  came  in — 
and,  Oh,  Robbie,  I'm  so  happy  you're  not  going! 

ROBERT,      (kissing  her)      I  knew  you'd  be  glad,  Ma. 

MAYO,      (bewilderedly)     Well,  I'll  be  damned !     You  do  beat 


40  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

all  for  gettin'  folks'  minds  all  tangled  up,  Robert.  And  Ruth 
too !  Whatever  got  into  her  of  a  sudden  ?  Why,  I  was 
thinkin' 

MRS.  MAYO,  (hurriedly — in  a  tone  of  warning)  Never  mind 
what  you  were  thinking,  James.  It  wouldn't  be  any  use  telling 
us  that  now.  (Meaningly)  And  what  you  were  hoping  for 
turns  out  just  the  same  almost,  doesn't  it? 

MAYO,  (thoughtfully — beginning  to  see  this  side  of  the  argu 
ment)  Yes;  I  suppose  you're  right,  Katey.  (Scratching  his 
head  in  puzzlement)  But  how  it  ever  come  about!  It  do  beat^ 
anything  ever  I  heard.  (Finally  he  gets  up  with  a  sheepish 
grin  and  walks  over  to  ROBERT)  We're  glad  you  ain't  goin', 
your  Ma  and  I,  for  we'd  have  missed  you  terrible,  that's  certain 
and  sure ;  and  we're  glad  you've  found  happiness.  Ruth's  a  fine 
girl  and'll  make  a  good  wife  to  you. 

ROBERT,  (much  moved)  Thank  you,  Pa.  (He  grips  his 
father's  hand  in  his). 

ANDREW,  (his  face  tense  and  drawn  comes  forward  and  holds 
out  his  hand,  forcing  a  smile)  I  guess  it's  my  turn  to  offer 
congratulations,  isn't  it? 

ROBERT,  (with  a  startled  cry  when  his  brother  appears  before 
him  so  suddenly)  Andy!  (Confused)  Why — I — I  didn't  see 
you.  Were  you  here  when 

ANDREW.  I  heard  everything  you  said ;  and  here's  wishing  you 
every  happiness,  you  and  Ruth.  You  both  deserve  the  best 
there  is.  . 

ROBERT,  (taking  his  hand)  Thanks,  Andy,  it's  fine  of  you 

to (His  voice  dies  away  as  he  sees  the  pain  in  ANDREW'S 

eyes). 

ANDREW,      (giving  his  brother's  hand  a  final  grip)     Good  luck 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON 


to  you  both  !  (He  turns  away  and  goes  back  to  the  rear  where 
he  bends  over  the  lantern,  fumbling  with  it  to  hide  his  emotion 
from  the  others). 

MRS.  MAYO,  (to  the  CAPTAIN,  who  ha*  been  too  flabbergasted 
by  ROBERT'S  decision  to  say  a  word)  What's  the  matter,  Dick? 
Aren't  you  going  to  congratulate  Robbie? 

SCOTT,  (embarrassed)  Of  course  I  be!  (He  gets  to  his 
feet  and  shakes  ROBERT'S  hand,  muttering  a  rogue)  Luck  to 
you,  boy.  (He  stands  beside  ROBERT  as  if  he  wanted  to  say 
something  more  but  doesn't  know  how  to  go  about  it). 

ROBERT.     Thanks,  Uncle  Dick. 

SCOTT.  So  you're  not  acomin'  on  the  Sunda  with  me?  (His 
voice  indicates  disbelief). 

ROBERT.  I  can't,  Uncle  —  not  now.  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for 
anything  else  in  the  world  under  any  other  circumstances.  (He 
sighs  unconsciously)  But  you  see  I've  found  —  a  bigger  dream. 
(Then  with  joyous  high  spirits)  I  want  you  all  to  understand 
one  thing  —  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  loafer  on  your  hands  any 
longer.  This  means  the  beginning  of  a  new  life  for  me  in  every 
way.  I'm  going  to  settle  right  down  and  take  a  real  interest 
in  the  farm,  and  do  my  share.  I'll  prove  to  you,  Pa,  that  I'm 
as  good  a  Mayo  as  you  are  —  or  Andy,  when  I  want  to  be. 

MAYO,  (kindly  but  skeptically)  That's  the  right  spirit,  Rob 
ert.  Ain't  none  of  us  doubts  your  willin'ness,  but  you  ain't 
never  learned  — 

ROBERT.  Then  I'm  going  to  start  learning  right  away,  and 
you'll  teach  me,  won't  you? 

MAYO,  (mollifyingly)  Of  course  I  will,  boy,  and  be  glad 
to,  only  you'd  best  go  easy  at  first. 

SCOTT,      (who   has    listened    to    this    conversation    in    mingled 


PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 


consternation  and  amazement)  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you're 
goin'  to  let  him  stay,  do  you,  James? 

MAYO.  Why,  things  bein'  as  they  be,  Robert's  free  to  do  as 
he's  a  mind  to. 

MRS.  MAYO.     Let  him!     The  very  idea! 

SCOTT,  (more  and  more  ruffled)  Then  all  I  got  to  say  is, 
you're  a  soft,  weak-willed  critter  to  be  permittin'  a  boy — and 
women,  too — to  be  layin'  your  course  for  you  wherever  they 
damn  pleases. 

MAYO,  (slyly  amused)  It's  just  the  same  with  me  as  'twas 
with  you,  Dick.  You  can't  order  the  tides  on  the  seas  to  suit 
you,  and  I  ain't  pretendin'  I  can  reg'late  love  for  young  folks. 

SCOTT,  (scornfully)  Love!  They  ain't  old  enough  to  know 
love  when  they  sight  it!  Love!  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Robert, 
to  go  lettin'  a  little  huggin'  and  kissin'  in  the  dark  spile  your 
chances  to  make  a  man  out  o'  yourself.  It  ain't  common  sense — 
no  siree,  it  ain't — not  by  a  hell  of  a  sight !  (He  pounds  the 
table  with  his  fists  in  exasperation). 

MRS.  MAYO,  (laughing  provokingly  at  her  brother)  A  fine 
one  you  are  to  be  talking  about  love,  Dick — an  old  cranky 
bachelor  like  you.  Goodness  sakes ! 

SCOTT,  (exasperated  by  their  joking)  I've  never  been  a 
damn  fool  like  most,  if  that's  what  you're  steerin'  at. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (tauntingly)  Sour  grapes,  aren't  they,  Dick? 
(She  laughs.  ROBERT  and  his  father  chuckle.  SCOTT  sputters 
with  annoyance)  Good  gracious,  Dick,  you  do  act  silly,  flying 
into  a  temper  over  nothing. 

SCOTT,  (indignantly)  Nothin' !  You  talk  as  if  I  wasn't  con 
cerned  nohow  in  this  here  business.  Seems  to  me  I've  got  a 
right  to  have  my  say.  Ain't  I  made  all  arrangements  with  the 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  43 

owners  and  stocked  up  with  some  special  grub  all  on  Robert's 
account  ? 

ROBERT.  You've  been  fine,  Uncle  Dick;  and  I  appreciate  it. 
Truly. 

MAYO.     'Course;  we  all  does,  Dick. 

SCOTT,  (unplacated)  I've  been  countin'  sure  on  havin'  Robert 
for  company  on  this  vige — to  sorta  talk  to  and  show  things 
to,  and  teach,  kinda,  and  I  got  my  mind  so  set  on  havin'  him 
I'm  goin'  to  be  double  lonesome  this  vige.  (He  pounds  on  the 
table,  attempting  to  cover  up  this  confession  of  weakness) 
Darn  all  this  silly  lovin'  business,  anyway.  (Irritably)  But  all 
this  talk  ain't  tellin'  me  what  I'm  to  do  with  that  sta'b'd  cabin 
I  fixed  up.  It's  all  painted  white,  an'  a  bran  new  mattress 
on  the  bunk,  'n'  new  sheets  'n'  blankets  V  things.  And  Chips 
built  in  a  book-case  so's  Robert  could  take  his  books  along — 
with  a  slidin'  bar  fixed  across't  it,  mind,  so's  they  couldn't  fall 
out  no  matter  how  she  rolled.  (With  excited  consternation) 
What  d'you  suppose  my  officers  is  goin'  to  think  when  there's 
no  one  comes  aboard  to  occupy  that  sta'b'd  cabin?  And  the 
men  what  did  the  work  on  it — what'll  they  think?  (He  shakes 
his  finger  indignantly)  They're  liable  as  not  to  suspicion  it 
was  a  -woman  I'd  planned  to  ship  along,  and  that  she  gave  me  the 
go-by  at  the  last  moment !  (He  wipes  his  perspiring  brow  in 
anguish  at  this  thought).  Gawd  A'mighty !  They're  only  lookin' 
to  have  the  laugh  on  me  for  something  like  that.  They're  liable 
to  b'lieve  anything,  those  fellers  is ! 

MAYO,  (with  a  wink)  Then  there's  nothing  to  it  but  for 
you  to  get  right  out  and  hunt  up  a  wife  somewheres  for  that 
spick  'n'  span  cabin.  She'll  have  to  be  a  pretty  one,  too,  to 
match  it.  (He  looks  at  his  watch  with  exaggerated  concern) 
You  ain't  got  much  time  to  find  her,  Dick. 


44  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

SCOTT,  (as  the  others  smile — sulkily)  You  kin  go  to  thunder, 
Jim  Mayo! 

ANDREW,  (comes  forward  from  where  he  has  been  standing 
by  the  doorf  rear,  brooding.  His  face  is  set  in  a  look  of  grim 
determination)  You  needn't  worry  about  that  spare  cabin,  Uncle 
Dick,  if  you've  a  mind  to  take  me  in  Robert's  place. 

ROBERT,  (turning  to  him  quickly)  Andy!  (He  sees  at  once 
the  fixed  resolve  in  his  brother's  eyesf  and  realizes  immediately 
the  reason  for  it — in  consternation)  Andy,  you  mustn't! 

ANDREW.  You've  made  your  decision,  Rob,  and  now  I've 
made  mine.  You're  out  of  this,  remember. 

ROBERT,      (hurt  by  his  brother's  tone)      But  Andy 

ANDREW.  Don't  interfere,  Rob — that's  all  I  ask.  (Turning 
to  his  uncle)  You  haven't  answered  my  question,  Uncle  Dick. 

SCOTT,  (clearing  his  throat,  with  an  uneasy  side  glance  at 
JAMES  MAYO  who  is  staring  at  his  elder  son  as  if  he  thought  he 
had  suddenly  gone  mad)  O'  course,  I'd  be  glad  to  have  you, 
Andy. 

ANDREW.  It's  settled  then.  I  can  pack  the  little  I  want  to 
take  in  a  few  minutes. 

MRS.  MAYO.     Don't  be  a  fool,  Dick.    Andy's  only  joking  you. 

SCOTT,  (disgruntedly)  It's  hard  to  tell  who's  jokin'  and 
who's  not  in  this  house. 

ANDREW,  (firmly)  I'm  not  joking,  Uncle  Dick  (As  SCOTT 
looks  at  him  uncertainly)  You  needn't  be  afraid  I'll  go  back 
on  my  word. 

ROBERT,  (hurt  by  the  insinuation  he  feels  in  ANDREW'S  tone) 
Andy!  That  isn't  fair! 

MAYO,  (frowning)  Seems  to  me  this  ain't  no  subject  to  joke 
over — not  for  Andy. 

ANDREW,      (facing  his  father)     I  agree  with  you,  Pa,  and  I 


BEYOND  THE   HORIZON  45 

tell  you  airain,  once  and  for  all,  that  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go. 

MAYO.  (dumbfounded — unable  to  doubt  the  determination  in 
ANDREW'S  voice — helplessly)  But  why,  son?  Why? 

ANDREW,      (evasively)      I've  always  wanted  to  go. 

ROBERT.     Andy ! 

ANDREW,  (half  angrily)  You  shut  up,  Rob!  (Turning  to 
his  father  again)  I  didn't  ever  mention  it  because  as  long  as 
Rob  was  going  I  knew  it  was  no  use;  but  now  Rob's  staying 
on  here,  there  isn't  any  reason  for  me  not  to  go. 

MAYO,  (breathing  hard)  No  reason?  Can  you  stand  there 
and  say  that  to  me,  Andrew? 

MRS.  MAYO,  (hastily — seeing  the  gathering  storm)  He 
doesn't  mean  a  word  of  it,  James. 

MAYO,  (making  a  gesture  to  her  to  keep  silence)  Let  me 
talk,  Katey.  (In  a  more  kindly  tone)  What's  come  over  you 
so  sudden,  Andy?  You  know's  well  as  I  do  that  it  wouldn't 
be  fair  o'  you  to  run  off  at  a  moment's  notice  right  now  when 
we're  up  to  our  necks  in  hard  work. 

ANDREW,  (avoiding  his  eyes)  Rob'll  hold  his  end  up  as  soon 
as  he  learns. 

MAYO.     Robert  was  never  cut  out  for  a  farmer,  and  you  was. 

ANDREW.     You  can  easily  get  a  man  to  do  my  work. 

MAYO,  (restraining  his  anger  with  an  effort)  It  sounds 
strange  to  hear  you,  Andy,  that  I  always  thought  had  good 
sense,  talkin'  crazy  like  that  (Scornfully)  Get  a  man  to  take 
your  place!  You  ain't  been  workin'  here  for  no  hire,  Andy, 
that  you  kin  give  me  your  notice  to  quit  like  you've  done.  The 
farm  is  your'n  as  well  as  mine.  You've  always  worked  on  it 
with  that  understanding;  and  what  you're  sayin'  you  intend  doin' 
is  just  skulkin'  out  o'  your  rightful  responsibility. 

ANDREW,      (looking    at    the    floor — simply)      I'm    sorry,    Pa. 


46  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

(After  a  slight  pause")      It's  no  use  talking  any  more  about  it. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (in  relief)  There !  I  knew  Andy'd  come  to  his 
senses ! 

ANDREW.  Don't  get  the  wrong  idea,  Ma.  I'm  not  backing  out. 
MAYO.  You  mean  you're  goin'  in  spite  of — everythin'? 

ANDREW.  Yes.  I'm  going.  I've  got  to.  (He  looks  at  his 
father  defiantly)  I  feel  I  oughn't  to  miss  this  chance  to  go  out 
into  the  world  and  see  things,  and — I  want  to  go. 

MAYO,  (with  bitter  scorn)  So — you  want  to  go  out  into  the 
world  and  see  thin's !  (His  voice  raised  and  quivering  with 
anger)  I  never  thought  I'd  live  to  see  the  day  when  a  son  o' 
mine  'd  look  me  in  the  face  and  tell  a  bare-faced  lie !  (Bursting 
out)  You're  a  liar,  Andy  Mayo,  and  a  mean  one  to  boot ! 

MRS.  MAYO.     James ! 

ROBERT.     Pa ! 

SCOTT.     Steady  there,  Jim! 

MAYO,      (waving  their  protests  aside)      He  is  and  he  knows  it. 

ANDREW,  (his  face  flushed)  I  won't  argue  with  you,  Pa. 
You  can  think  as  badly  of  me  as  you  like. 

MAYO,  (shaking  his  finger  at  ANDY,  in  a  cold  rage)  You 
know  I'm  speakin'  truth — that's  why  you're  afraid  to  argy ! 
You  lie  when  you  say  you  want  to  go  'way — and  see  thin's ! 
You  ain't  got  no  likin'  in  the  world  to  go.  I've  watched  you 
grow  up,  and  I  know  your  ways,  and  they're  my  ways.  You're 
runnin'  against  your  own  nature,  and  you're  goin'  to  be  a'mighty 
sorry  for  it  if  you  do.  'S  if  I  didn't  know  your  real  reason 
for  runnin'  away!  And  runnin'  away's  the  only  words  to  fit 
it.  You're  runnin'  away  'cause  you're  put  out  and  riled  'cause 
your  own  brother's  got  Ruth  'stead  o'  you,  and 

ANDREW,  (his  face  crimson — tensely)  Stop,  Pa!  I  won't 
stand  hearing  that — not  even  from  you! 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  47 

MRS.  MAYO,  (rushing  to  ANDY  and  putting  her  arms  about 
him  protectingly)  Don't  mind  him,  Andy  dear.  He  don't  mean 
a  word  he's  saying!  (ROBERT  stands  rigidly,  his  hands  clenched, 
his  face  contracted  by  pain.  SCOTT  sits  dumbfounded  and  open- 
mouthed.  ANDREW  soothes  his  mother  who  is  on  the  verge  of 
tears). 

MAYO,  (in  angry  triumph)  It's  the  truth,  Andy  Mayo!  And 
you  ought  to  be  bowed  in  shame  to  think  of  it! 

ROBERT,      (protestingly)      Pa! 

MRS.  MAYO,  (coming  from  ANDREW  to  his  father;  puts  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders  as  though  to  try  and  push  him  back  in 
the  chair  from  which  he  has  risen)  Won't  you  be  still,  James? 
Please  won't  you? 

MAYO,  (looking  at  ANDREW  over  his  wife's  shoulder — stub 
bornly)  The  truth — God's  truth  ! 

MRS.  MAYO.  Sh-h-h !  (She  tries  to  put  a  finger  across  his 
lips,  but  he  twists  his  head  away). 

ANDREW,  (who  has  regained  control  over  himself)  You're 
wrong,  Pa,  it  isn't  truth.  (JVith  defiant  assertiveness)  I  don't 
love  Ruth.  I  never  loved  her,  and  the  thought  of  such  a  thing 
never  entered  my  head. 

MAYO,  (with  an  angry  snort  of  disbelief)  Hump !  You're 
pilin'  lie  on  lie! 

ANDREW,  (losing  his  temper — bitterly)  I  suppose  it'd  be 
hard  for  you  to  explain  anyone's  wanting  to  leave  this  blessed 
farm  except  for  some  outside  reason  like  that.  But  I'm  sick 
and  tired  of  it — whether  you  want  to  believe  me  or  not — and 
that's  why  I'm  glad  to  get  a  chance  to  move  on. 

ROBERT.     Andy  !     Don't !     You're  only  making  it  worse. 

ANDREW,  (sulkily)  I  don't  care.  I've  done  my  share  of 
work  here.  I've  earned  my  right  to  quit  when  I  want  to. 


48  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

(Suddenly  overcome  with  anger  and  grief;  with  rising  intensity) 
I'm  sick  and  tired  of  the  whole  damn  business.  I  hate  the 
farm  and  every  inch  of  ground  in  it.  I'm  sick  of  digging  in  the 
dirt  and  sweating  in  the  sun  like  a  slave  without  getting  a  word 
of  thanks  for  it.  (Tears  of  rage  starting  to  his  eyes — hoarsely) 
I'm  through,  through  for  good  and  all ;  and  if  Uncle  Dick  won't 
take  me  on  his  ship,  I'll  find  another.  I'll  get  away  somewhere, 
somehow. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (in  a  frightened  voice)  Don't  you  answer  him, 
James.  He  doesn't  know  what  he's  saying.  Don't  say  a  word  to 
him  'til  he's  in  his  right  senses  again.  Please  James,  don't 

MAYO,  (pushes  her  away  from  him;  his  face  is  drawn  and 
pale  with  the  violence  of  his  passion.  He  glares  at  ANDREW  a* 
if  he  hated  him)  You  dare  to — you  dare  to  speak  like  that 
to  me?  You  talk  like  that  'bout  this  farm — the  Mayo  farm — 

where  you  was  born — you — you (He  clenches  his  fist  above 

his  head  and  advances  threateningly  on  ANDREW)  You  damned 
whelp ! 

MRS.  MAYO,  (with  a  shriek)  James!  (She  covers  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  sinks  weakly  into  MAYO'S  chair.  ANDREW 
remains  standing  motionless ,  his  face  pale  and  set). 

SCOTT,  (starting  to  his  feet  and  stretching  his  arms  across 
the  table  toward  MAYO)  Easy  there,  Jim ! 

ROBERT,  (throwing  himself  between  father  and  brother) 
Stop !  Are  you  mad  ? 

MAYO,  (grabs  ROBERT'S  arm  and  pushes  him  aside — then 
stands  for  a  moment  gasping  for  breath  before  ANDREW.  He 
points  to  the  door  with  a  shaking  finger)  Yes — go! — go! — 
You're  no  son  o'  mine — no  son  o'  mine!  You  can  go  to  hell  if 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  49 


you  want  to!  Don't  let  me  find  you  here — in  the  mornin' — 
or — or — I'll  throw  you  out! 

ROBERT.  Pa!  For  God's  sake!  (MRS.  MAYO  bursts  into  noisy 
sobbing). 

MAYO,  (he  gulps  convulsively  and  glares  at  ANDREW)  You 
go — tomorrow  mornin' — and  by  God — don't  come  back — don't 

dare  come  back — by  God,  not  while  I'm  livin' — or  I'll — I'll 

(He  shakes  over  his  muttered  threat  and  strides  toward  the  door 
rear,  right). 

MRS.  MAYO,  (rising  and  throwing  her  arms  around  him — 
hysterically)  James!  James!  Where  are  you  going? 

MAYO,  (incoherently)  I'm  goin' — to  bed,  Katey.  It's  late, 
Katey — it's  late.  (He  goes  out). 

MRS.  MAYO,  (following  him,  pleading  hysterically)  James! 
Take  back  what  you've  said  to  Andy.  James!  (She  follows 
him  out.  ROBERT  and  the  CAPTAIN  stare  after  them  with  horri 
fied  eyes.  ANDREW  stands  rigidly  looking  straight  in  front  of 
him,  his  fists  clenched  at  his  sides). 

SCOTT,  (the  first  to  find  his  voice — with  an  explosive  sigh) 
Well,  if  he  ain't  the  devil  himself  when  he's  roused!  You 
oughtn't  to  have  talked  to  him  that  way,  Andy  'bout  the  damn 
farm,  knowin'  how  touchy  he  is  about  it.  (With  another  sigh) 
Well,  you  won't  mind  what  he's  said  in  anger.  He'll  be  sorry 
for  it  when  he's  calmed  down  a  bit. 

ANDREW,  (in  a  dead  voice)  You  don't  know  him.  (De 
fiantly)  What's  said  is  said  and  can't  be  unsaid;  and  I've 
chosen. 

ROBERT,  (with  violent  protest)  Andy!  You  can't  go!  This 
is  all  so  stupid — and  terrible ! 

ANDREW,      (coldly)    I'll  talk  to  you  in  a  minute,  Rob.    (Crushed 


50  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

by  his  brother's  attitude  ROBERT  sinks  down  into  a  chair,  holding 
his  head  in  his  hands}. 

SCOTT,  (comes  and  slaps  ANDREW  on  the  back)  I'm  damned 
glad  you're  shippin'  on,  Andy.  I  like  your  spirit,  and  the  way 
you  spoke  up  to  him.  (Lowering  his  voice  to  a  cautious  whisper) 
The  sea's  the  place  for  a  young  feller  like  you  that  isn't  half 
dead  'n'  alive.  (He  gives  ANDY  a  final  approving  slap)  You 
V  me  '11  get  along  like  twins,  see  if  we  don't.  I'm  goin'  aloft 
to  turn  in.  Don't  forget  to  pack  your  dunnage.  And  git  some 
sleep,  if  you  kin.  We'll  want  to  sneak  out  extra  early  b'fore 
they're  up.  It'll  do  away  with  more  argyments.  Robert  can 
drive  us  down  to  the  town,  and  bring  back  the  team.  (He  goes 
to  the  door  in  the  rear,  left)  Well,  good  night. 

ANDREW.  Good  night.  (SCOTT  goes  out.  The  two  brothers 
remain  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  ANDREW  comes  over  to  his 
brother  and  puts  a  hand  on  his  back.  He  speaks  in  a  low  voice, 
full  of  feeling)  Buck  up,  Rob.  It  ain't  any  use  crying  over 
spilt  milk;  and  it'll  all  turn  out  for  the  best — let's  hope.  It 
couldn't  be  helped — what's  happened. 

ROBERT,      (wildly)     But  it's  a  lie,  Andy,  a  lie ! 

ANDREW.  Of  course  it's  a  lie.  You  know  it  and  I  know  it, — 
but  that's  all  ought  to  know  it. 

ROBERT.  Pa'll  never  forgive  you.  Oh,  the  whole  affair  is  so 
senseless — and  tragic.  Why  did  you  think  you  must  go  away? 

ANDREW.  You  know  better  than  to  ask  that.  You  know 
why.  (Fiercely)  I  can  wish  you  and  Ruth  all  the  good  luck 
in  the  world,  and  I  do,  and  I  mean  it;  but  you  can't  expect 
me  to  stay  around  here  and  watch  you  two  together,  day  after 
day — and  me  alone.  I  couldn't  stand  it — not  after  all  the  plans 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  51 

I'd  made  to  happen  on  this  place  thinking (his  voice 

breaks)  thinking  she  cared  for  me. 

ROBERT,  (putting  a  hand  on  his  brother's  arm)  God !  It's 
horrible !  I  feel  so  guilty — to  think  that  I  should  be  the  cause 
of  your  suffering,  after  we've  been  such  pals  all  our  live**.  If  I 
could  have  foreseen  what'd  happen,  I  swear  to  you  I'd  have 
never  said  a  word  to  Ruth.  I  swear  I  wouldn't  have,  Andy! 

ANDREW.  I  know  you  wouldn't;  and  that  would've  been  worse, 
for  Ruth  would've  suffered  then.  (He  pats  his  brother's  shoul 
der)  It's  best  as  it  is.  It  had  to  be,  and  I've  got  to  stand 
the  gaff,  that's  all.  Pa'll  see  how  I  felt — after  a  time.  (At 
ROBERT  shakes  his  head) — and  if  he  don't — well,  it  can't  be 
helped. 

ROBERT.  But  think  of  Ma !  God,  Andy,  you  can't  go !  You 
can't! 

ANDREW,  (fiercely)  I've  got  to  go — to  get  away!  I've 
got  to,  I  tell  you.  I'd  go  crazy  here,  bein'  reminded  every 
second  of  the  day  what  a  fool  I'd  made  of  myself.  I've  got 
to  get  away  and  try  and  forget,  if  I  can.  And  I'd  hate  the 
farm  if  I  stayed,  hate  it  for  bringin'  things  back.  I  couldn't 
take  interest  in  the  work  any  more,  work  with  no  purpose  in 
sight.  Can't  you  see  what  a  hell  it'd  be?  You  love  her  too, 
Rob.  Put  yourself  in  my  place,  and  remember  I  haven't 
stopped  loving  her,  and  couldn't  if  I  was  to  stay.  Would  that 
be  fair  to  you  or  to  her?  Put  yourself  in  my  place.  (He 
shakes  his  brother  fiercely  by  the  shoulder)  What'd  you  do 
then?  Tell  me  the  truth!  You  love  her.  What'd  you  do? 

ROBERT.  (chokingly)  I'd — I'd  go,  Andy!  (He  buries  his 
face  in  his  hands  with  a  shuddering  sob)  God! 

ANDREW,      (seeming  to  relax  suddenly   all  over  his  body — in 


52  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

a  low,  steady   voice)      Then  you  know  why   I   got  to   go;   and 
there's  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

ROBERT,  (in  a  frenzy  of  rebellion)  Why  did  this  have  to 
happen  to  us?  It's  damnable!  (He  looks  about  him  wildly,  as 
if  his  vengeance  were  seeking  the  responsible  fate). 

ANDREW,  (soothingly — again  putting  his  hands  on  his 
brother's  shoulder)  It's  no  use  fussing  any  more,  Rob.  It's 
done.  (Forcing  a  smile)  I  guess  Ruth's  got  a  right  to  have 
who  she  likes.  She  made  a  good  choice — and  God  bless  her 
for  it ! 

ROBERT.  Andy!  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  half  I  feel 
of  how  fine  you  are ! 

ANDREW.  (interrupting  him  quickly)  Shut  up !  Let's  go  to 
bed.  I've  got  to  be  up  long  before  sun-up.  You,  too,  if  you're 
going  to  drive  us  down. 

ROBERT.     Yes.     Yes. 

ANDREW,  (turning  down  the  lamp)  And  I've  got  to  pack 
yet.  (He  yawns  with  utter  weariness)  I'm  as  tired  as  if  I'd 
been  plowing  twenty-four  hours  at  a  stretch.  (Dully)  I  feel 
— dead.  (ROBERT  covers  his  face  again  with  his  hands.  ANDREW 
shakes  his  head  as  if  to  get  rid  of  his  thoughts,  and  continues 
with  a  poor  attempt  at  cheery  briskness)  I'm  going  to  douse 
the  light.  Come  on.  (He  slaps  his  brother  on  the  back.  ROBERT 
does  not  move.  ANDREW  bends  over  and  blows  out  the  lamp. 
His  voice  comes  from  the  darkness)  Don't  sit  there  mourning, 
Rob.  It'll  all  come  out  in  the  wash.  Come  on  and  get  some 
sleep.  Everything'll  turn  out  all  right  in  the  end.  (ROBERT 
can  be  heard  stumbling  to  his  feet,  and  the  dark  figures  of  the 
two  brothers  can  be  seen  groping  their  way  toward  the  doorway 
in  the  rear  as 

(The  Curtain  Falls) 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON 
ACT  TWO 


ACT  TWO 

SCENE  ONE 

Same  as  Act  One,  Scene  Two.  Sitting  room  of  the  farm 
house  about  half  past  twelve  in  the  afternoon  of  a  hot, 
sun-baked  day  in  mid-summer,  three  years  later.  All  the  win 
dows  are  open,  but  no  breeze  stirs  the  soiled  white  curtains. 
A  patched  screen  door  is  in  the  rear.  Through  it  the  yard  can 
be  seen,  its  small  stretch  of  lawn  divided  by  the  dirt  path  lead 
ing  to  the  door  from  the  gate  in  the  white  picket  fence  which 
borders  the  road. 

The  room  has  changed,  not  so  much  in  its  outward  appear 
ance  as  in  its  general  atmosphere.  Little  significant  details 
give  evidence  of  carelessness,  of  inefficiency,  of  an  industry 
gone  to  seed.  The  chairs  appear  shabby  from  lack  of  paint; 
the  table  cover  is  spotted  and  askew;  holes  show  in  the  cur 
tains;  a  child's  doll,  with  one  arm  gone,  lies  under  the  table;  a 
hoe  stands  in  a  corner;  a  man's  coat  is  flung  on  the  couch  in  the 
rear;  the  desk  is  cluttered  up  with  odds  and  ends;  a  number 
of  books  are  piled  carelessly  on  the  sideboard.  The  noon 
enervation  of  the  sultry,  scorching  day  seems  to  have  penetrated 
indoors,  causing  even  inanimate  objects  to  wear  an  aspect  of 
despondent  exhaustion. 

A  place  is  set  at  the  end  of  the  table,  left,  for  someone's  din 
ner.  Through  the  open  door  to  the  kitchen  comes  the  clatter 
of  dishes  being  washed,  interrupted  at  intervals  by  a  woman's 

irritated  voice  and  the  peevish  whining  of  a  child. 

55 


56  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  MRS.  MAYO  and  MRS.  ATKINS  are 
discovered  sitting  facing  each  other,  MRS.  MAYO  to  the  rear, 
MRS.  ATKINS  to  the  right  of  the  table.  MRS.  MAYO'S  face  has  lost 
all  character,  disintegrated,  become  a  weak  mask  wearing  a 
helpless,  doleful  expression  of  being  constantly  on  the  verge 
of  comfortless  tears.  She  speaks  in  an  uncertain  voice,  with 
out  assertiveness,  as  if  all  power  of  willing  had  deserted  her. 
MRS.  ATKINS  is  in  her  wheel  chair.  She  is  a  thin,  pale-faced, 
unintelligent  looking  woman  of  about  forty-eight,  with  h^rd, 
bright  eyes.  A  victim  of  partial  paralysis  for  many  years,  con 
demned  to  be  pushed  from  day  to  day  of  her  life  in  a  wheel 
chair,  she  has  developed  the  selfish,  irritable  nature  of  the 
chronic  invalid.  Both  women  are  dressed  in  black.  MRS.  ATKINS 
knits  nervously  as  she  talks.  A  ball  of  unused  yarn,  with  needles 
stuck  through  it,  lies  on  the  table  before  MRS.  MAYO. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (with  a  disapproving  giance  at  the  place  set 
on  the  table)  Robert's  late  for  his  dinner  again,  as  usual.  I 
don't  see  why  Ruth  puts  up  with  it,  and  I've  told  her  so. 
Many's  the  time  I've  said  to  her  "It's  about  time  you  put  a 
stop  to  his  nonsense.  Does  he  suppose  you're  runnm'  a  hotel 
— with  no  one  to  help  with  things?"  But  she  don't  pay  no 
attention.  She's  as  bad  as  he  is,  a'most — thinks  she  knows 
better  than  an  old,  sick  body  like  me. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (dully)  Robbie's  always  late  for  things.  He 
can't  help  it,  Sarah. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (with  a  snort)  Can't  help  it!  How  you  do 
go  on,  Kate,  findin'  excuses  for  him!  Anybody  can  help  any 
thing  they've  a  mind  to — as  long  as  they've  got  health,  and 


BEYOND  THE   HORIZON  57 


ain't  rendered  helpless  like  me — (She  adds  as  a  pious  after 
thought) — through  the  will  of  God. 

MRS.   MAYO.     Robbie  can't. 

MRS.  ATKINS.  Can't!  It  do  make  me  mad,  Kate  Mayo,  to  see 
folks  that  God  gave  all  the  use  of  their  limbs  to  potterin' 
round  and  wastin'  time  doin'  everything  the  wrong  way— 
and  me  powerless  to  help  and  at  their  mercy,  you  might  say. 
And  it  ain't  that  I  haven't  pointed  the  right  way  to  'em.  I've 
talked  to  Robert  thousands  of  times  and  told  him  how  thinu^ 
ought  to  be  done.  You  know  that,  Kate  Mayo.  But  d'you 
•/pose  he  takes  any  notice  of  what  I  say?  Or  Ruth,  either — 
my  own  daughter?  No,  they  think  I'm  a  crazy,  cranky  old 
woman,  half  dead  a'ready,  and  the  sooner  I'm  in  the  grave  and 
out  o'  their  way  the  better  it'd  suit  them. 

MRS.  MAYO.  You  mustn't  talk  that  way,  Sarah.  They're  not 
as  wicked  as  that.  And  you've  got  years  and  years  before  you. 

MRS.  ATKINS.  You're  like  the  rest,  Kate.  You  don't  know 
how  near  the  end  I  am.  Well,  at  least  I  can  go  to  my  eternal 
rest  with  a  clear  conscience.  I've  done  all  a  body  could  do 
to  avert  ruin  from  this  house.  On  their  heads  be  it! 

MRS.  MAYO,  (with  hopeless  indifference)  Things  might  be 
worse.  Robert  never  had  any  experience  in  farming.  You  can't 
expect  him  to  learn  in  a  day. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (snappily)  He's  had  three  years  to  learn, 
and  he's  gettin'  worse  'stead  of  better.  Not  on'y  your  place 
but  mine  too  is  driftin'  to  rack  and  ruin,  and  I  can't  do  nothin' 
to  prevent. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (with  a  spark  of  assertiveness)  You  can't  say 
but  Robbie  works  hard,  Sarah. 


58  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

MRS.  ATKINS.  What  good's  workin'  hard  if  it  don't  accom 
plish  anything  I'd  like  to  know? 

MRS.  MAYO.     Robbie's  had  bad  luck  against  him. 

MRS.  ATKINS.  Say  what  you've  a  mind  to,  Kate,  the  proof 
of  the  puddin's  in  the  eatin';  and  you  can't  deny  that  things 
have  been  goin'  from  bad  to  worse  ever  since  your  husband  died 
two  years  back. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (wiping  tears  from  her  eyes  with  her  handker 
chief)  It  was  God's  will  that  he  should  be  taken. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (triumphantly)  It  was  God's  punishment  on 
James  Mayo  for  the  blasphemin'  and  denyin'  of  God  he  done 
all  his  sinful  life!  (MRS.  MAYO  begins  to  weep  softly)  There, 
Kate,  I  shouldn't  be  remindin'  you,  I  know.  He's  at  peace,  poor 
man,  and  forgiven,  let's  pray. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (wiping  her  eyes — simply)  James  was  a  good 
man. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (ignoring  this  remark)  What  I  was  sayin'  was 
that  since  Robert's  been  in  charge  things've  been  goin'  down 
hill  steady.  You  don't  know  how  bad  they  are.  Robert  don't 
let  on  to  you  what's  happenin';  and  you'd  never  see  it  your 
self  if  'twas  under  your  nose.  But,  thank  the  Lord,  Ruth 
still  comes  to  me  once  in  a  while  for  advice  when  she's  worried 
near  out  of  her  senses  by  his  goin's-on.  Do  you  know  what 
she  told  me  last  night?  But  I  forgot,  she  said  not  to  tell  you 
— still  I  think  you've  got  a  right  to  know,  and  it's  my  duty 
not  to  let  such  things  go  on  behind  your  back. 

MRS.  MAYO,      (wearily)     You  can  tell  me  if  you  want  to. 

MRS.    ATKINS,      (bending   over   toward   her — in    a   low   voi* 
Ruth  was  almost  crazy  about  it.     Robert  told  her  he'd  have  to 
mortgage  the  farm — said  he  didn't  know  how  he'd  pull  through 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  59 

'til  harvest  without  it,  and  he  can't  get  money  any  other  way. 
(She  straightens  up — indignantly)  Now  what  do  you  think 
of  your  Robert? 

MRS.  MAYO,      (resignedly)      If  it  has  to  be 

MRS.  ATKINS.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  goin'  to  sign 
away  your  farm,  Kate  Mayo — after  me  warnin'  you? 

MRS.  MAYO. — I'll  do  what  Robbie  says  is  needful. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (holding  up  her  hands)  Well,  of  all  the  fool 
ishness! — well,  it's  your  farm,  not  mine,  and  I've  nothin'  more 
to  say. 

MRS.  MAYO.  Maybe  Robbie'll  manage  till  Andy  gets  back 
and  sees  to  things.  It  can't  be  long  now. 

MRS.  ATKINS  (with  keen  interest)  Ruth  says  Andy  ought 
to  turn  up  any  day.  When  does  Robert  figger  he'll  get  here? 

MRS.  MAYO.  He  says  he  can't  calculate  exactly  on  account 
o'  the  Sunda  being  a  sail  boat.  Last  letter  he  got  was  from 
England,  the  day  they  were  sailing  for  home.  That  was  over 
a  month  ago,  and  Robbie  thinks  they're  overdue  now. 

MRS.  ATKINS.  We  can  give  praise  to  God  then  that  he'll  be 
back  in  the  nick  o'  time.  He  ought  to  be  tired  of  travelin' 
and  anxious  to  get  home  and  settle  down  to  work  again. 

MRS.  MAYO.  Andy  has  been  working.  He's  head  officer  on 
Dick's  boat,  he  wrote  Robbie.  You  know  that. 

MRS.  ATKINS.  That  foolin'  on  ships  is  all  right  for  a  spell, 
but  he  must  be  right  sick  of  it  by  this. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (musingly)  I  wonder  if  he's  changed  much. 
He  used  to  be  so  fine-looking  and  strong.  (With  a  sigh)  Three 
years !  It  seems  more  like  three  hundred.  (Her  eyes  filling 
— piteously)  Oh,  if  James  could  only  have  lived  "til  he  came 
back — and  forgiven  him! 


60  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

MRS.  ATKINS.  He  never  would  have — not  James  Mayo! 
Didn't  he  keep  his  heart  hardened  against  him  till  the  last  in 
spite  of  all  you  and  Robert  did  to  soften  him? 

MRS.  MAYO,  (with  a  feeble  flash  of  anger'}  Don't  you  dare 
say  that !  (Brokenly)  Oh,  I  know  deep  down  in  his  heart  he 
forgave  Andy,  though  he  was  too  stubborn  ever  to  own  up  to 
it.  It  was  that  brought  on  his  death — breaking  his  heart  just 
on  account  of  his  stubborn  pride.  (She  wipes  her  eyes  with  her 
handkerchief  and  sobs). 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (piously)  It  was  the  will  of  God.  (The  whin 
ing  crying  of  the  child  sounds  from  the  kitchen.  MRS.  ATKINS 
frowns  irritably)  Drat  that  young  one !  Seems  as  if  she  cries 
all  the  time  on  purpose  to  set  a  body's  nerves  on  edge. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (wiping  her  eyes)  It's  the  heat  upsets  her. 
Mary  doesn't  feel  any  too  well  these  days,  poor  little  child ! 

MRS.  ATKINS.  She  gets  it  right  from  her  Pa — bein'  sickly  all 
the  time.  You  can't  deny  Robert  was  always  ailin'  as  a  child. 
(She  sighs  heavily)  It  was  a  crazy  mistake  for  them  two  to  get 
married.  I  argyed  against  it  at  the  time,  but  Ruth  was  so 
spelled  with  Robert's  wild  poetry  notions  she  wouldn't  listen 
to  sense.  Andy  was  the  one  would  have  been  the  match  for 
her. 

MRS.  MAYO.  I've  often  thought  since  it  might  have  been 
better  the  other  way.  But  Ruth  and  Robbie  seem  happy  enough 
together. 

MRS.  ATKINS.  At  any  rate  it  was  God's  work — and  His  will 
be  done.  (The  two  women  sit  in  silence  for  a  moment.  RUTH 
enters  from  the  kitchen,  carrying  in  her  arms  her  two  year  old 
daughter,  MARY,  a  pretty  but  sickly  and  cenemic  looking  child 
with  a  tear-stained  face.  RUTH  has  aged  appreciably.  Her 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  61 

face  ha*  lost  its  youth  and  freshness.  There  is  a  trace  in  her 
expression  of  something  hard  and  spiteful.  She  sits  in  the 
rocker  in  front  of  the  table  and  sighs  wearily.  She  wears  a 
gingham  dress  with  a  soiled  apron  tied  around  her  waist). 

RUTH.  Land  sakes,  if  this  isn't  a  scorcher !  That  kitchen's 
like  a  furnace.  Phew!  (She  pushes  the  damp  hair  back  from 
her  forehead). 

MRS.  MAYO.     Why  didn't  you  call  me  to  help  with  the  dishes? 

RUTH,      (shortly)     No.     The  heat  in  there'd  kill  you. 

MARY,  (sees  the  doll  under  the  table  and  struggles  on  her 
mother's  lap)  Dolly,  Mama!  Dolly! 

RUTH,  (pulling  her  back)  It's  time  for  your  nap.  You 
can't  play  with  Dolly  now. 

MARY,      (commencing  to  cry  whiningly)      Dolly! 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (irritably)  Can't  you  keep  that  child  still? 
Her  racket's  enough  to  split  a  body's  ears.  Put  her  down  and 
let  her  play  with  the  doll  if  it'll  quiet  her. 

RUTH,  (lifting  MARY  to  the  floor)  There !  I  hope  you'll 
be  satisfied  and  keep  still.  (MARY  sits  down  on  the  floor  before 
the  table  and  plays  with  the  doll  in  silence.  RUTH  glances  at 
the  place  set  on  the  table)  It's  a  wonder  Rob  wouldn't  try  to 
get  to  meals  on  time  once  in  a  while. 

MRS.  MAYO,  (dully)  Something  must  have  gone  wrong 
again. 

RUTH,  (wearily)  I  s'pose  so.  Something's  always  going 
wrong  these  days,  it  looks  like. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (snappily)  It  wouldn't  if  you  possessed  a 
bit  of  spunk.  The  idea  of  you  permittin'  him  to  come  in  to 
meals  at  all  hours — and  you  doin'  the  work!  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thin'.  You're  too  easy  goin',  that's  the  trouble. 


62  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

RUTH.  Do  stop  your  nagging  at  me,  Ma!  I'm  sick  of 
hearing  you.  I'll  do  as  I  please  about  it;  and  thank  you  for 
not  interfering.  (She  wipes  her  moist  forehead — wearily) 
Phew!  It's  too  hot  to  argue.  Let's  talk  of  something  pleasant. 
(Curiously)  Didn't  I  hear  you  speaking  about  Andy  a  while 
ago? 

MRS.  MAYO.     We  were  wondering  when  he'd  get  home. 

RUTH,  (brightening)  Rob  says  any  day  now  he's  liable 
to  drop  in  and  surprise  us — him  and  the  Captain.  It'll  cer 
tainly  look  natural  to  see  him  around  the  farm  again. 

MRS.  ATKINS.  Let's  hope  the  farm'll  look  more  natural,  too, 
when  he's  had  a  hand  at  it.  The  way  thin's  are  now ! 

RUTH,  (irritably)  Will  you  stop  harping  on  that,  Ma? 
We  all  know  things  aren't  as  they  might  be.  What's  the  good 
of  your  complaining  all  the  time? 

MRS.  ATKINS.  There,  Kate  Mayo!  Ain't  that  just  what  I 
told  you?  I  can't  say  a  word  of  advice  to  my  own  daughter 
even,  she's  that  stubborn  and  self-willed. 

RUTH,  (putting  her  hands  over  her  ears — in  exasperation) 
For  goodness  sakes,  Ma ! 

MRS.  MAYO,  (dully)  Never  mind.  Andy'll  fix  everything 
when  he  comes. 

RUTH,  (hopefully)  Oh,  yes,  If  know  he  will.  He  always  did 
know  just  the  right  thing  ought  to  be  done.  (With  weary 
vexation)  It's  a  shame  for  him  to  come  home  and  have  to  start 
in  with  things  in  such  a  topsy-turvy. 

MRS.   MAYO.     Andy'll   manage. 

RUTH,  (sighing)  I  s'pose  it  isn't  Rob's  fault  things  go 
wrong  with  him. 

MRS.     ATKINS,      (scornfully)       Hump !        (She     fans     herself 


BEYOND  THE   HORIZON  63 

nervously)  Land  o'  Goshen,  but  it's  bakin'  in  here!  Let's 
go  out  in  under  the  trees  in  back  where  there's  a  breath  of 
fresh  air.  Come,  Kate.  (MRS.  MAYO  gets  up  obediently  and 
starts  to  wheel  the  invalid's  chair  toward  the  screen  door) 
You  better  come  too,  Ruth.  It'll  do  you  good.  Learn  him  a 
lesson  and  let  him  get  his  own  dinner.  Don't  be  such  a  fool. 

RUTH,  (going  and  holding  the  screen  door  open  for  them — 
listlessly)  He  wouldn't  mind.  He  doesn't  eat  much.  But  I 
can't  go  anyway.  I've  got  to  put  baby  to  bed. 

MRS.  ATKINS.  Let's  go,  Kate.  I'm  boilin'  in  here.  (MRS. 
MAYO  "wheels  her  out  and  off  left,  RUTH  comes  back  and  sits 
down  in  her  chair). 

RUTH,  (mechanically)  Come  and  let  me  take  off  your  shoes 
and  stockings,  Mary,  that's  a  good  girl.  You've  got  to  take 
your  nap  now.  (The  child  continues  to  play  as  if  she  hadn't 
heard,  absorbed  in  her  doll.  An  eager  expression  comes  over 
RUTH'S  tired  face.  She  glances  toward  the  door  furtively — 
then  gets  up  and  goes  to  the  desk.  Her  movements  indicate 
a  guilty  fear  of  discovery.  She  takes  a  letter  from  a  pigeon 
hole  and  retreats  swiftly  to  her  chair  with  it.  She  opens  the 
envelope  and  reads  the  letter  with  great  interest,  a  flush  of 
excitement  coming  to  her  cheeks.  ROBERT  walks  up  the  path 
and  opens  the  screen  door  quietly  and  comes  into  the  room. 
He,  too,  has  aged.  His  shoulders  are  stooped  as  if  under  too 
great  a  burden.  His  eyes  are  dull  and  lifeless,  his  face  burned 
by  the  sun  and  unshaven  for  days.  Streaks  of  sweat  have 
smudged  the  layer  of  dust  on  his  cheeks.  His  lips  drawn  down 
at  the  corners,  give  him  a  hopeless,  resigned  expression.  The 
three  years  have  accentuated  the  weakness  of  his  mouth  and 


64  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

chin.  He  is  dressed  in  overalls,  laced  boots,  and  a  flannel 
shirt  open  at  the  neck). 

ROBERT,  (throwing  his  hat  over  on  the  sofa — with  a  great 
sigh  of  exhaustion)  Phew!  The  sun's  hot  today!  (RUTH  is 
startled.  At  first  she  makes  an  instinctive  motion  as  if  to  hide 
the  letter  in  her  bosom.  She  immediately  thinks  better  of  this 
and  sits  with  the  letter  in  her  hands  looking  at  him  with  defiant 
eyes.  He  bends  down  and  kisses  her). 

RUTH,  (feeling  of  her  cheek — irritably)  Why  don't  you 
shave?  You  look  awful. 

ROBERT,  (indifferently)  I  forgot — and  it's  too  much  trouble 
this  weather. 

MARY,  (throwing  aside  her  doll,  runs  to  him  with  a  happy 
cry)  Dada !  Dada ! 

ROBERT,  (swinging  her  up  above  his  head — lovingly)  And 
how's  this  little  girl  of  mine  this  hot  day,  eh? 

MARY,      (screeching   happily)      Dada!      Dada! 

RUTH,  (in  annoyance)  Don't  do  that  to  her!  You  know 
it's  time  for  her  nap  and  you'll  get  her  all  waked  up;  then 
I'll  be  the  one  that'll  have  to  sit  beside  her  till  she  falls  asleep. 

ROBERT,  (sitting  down  in  the  chair  on  the  left  of  table  and 
cuddling  MARY  on  his  lap)  You  needn't  bother.  I'll  put  her 
to  bed. 

RUTH,  (shortly)  You've  got  to  get  back  to  your  work,  I 
s'pose. 

ROBERT,  (with  a  sigh)  Yes,  I  was  forgetting.  (He  glances 
at  the  open  letter  on  RUTH'S  lap)  Reading  Andy's  letter  again? 
I  should  think  you'd  know  it  by  heart  by  this  time. 

RUTH,      (coloring   as   if   she'd   been    accused   of   something — 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  65 

defiantly)  I've  got  a  right  to  read  it,  haven't  I?  He  says  it's 
meant  for  all  of  us. 

ROBERT,  (with  a  trace  of  irritation)  Right?  Don't  be  so 
silly.  There's  no  question  of  right.  I  was  only  saying  that  you 
must  know  all  that's  in  it  after  so  many  readings. 

RUTH.  Well,  I  don't.  (She  puts  the  letter  on  the  table  and 
gets  wearily  to  her  feet)  I  s'pose  you'll  be  wanting  your  din 
ner  now. 

ROBERT,      (listlessly)      I  don't  care.      I'm  not  hungry. 

RUTH.     And  here   I  been  keeping  it  hot   for  you ! 

ROBERT,  (irritably)  Oh,  all  right  then.  Bring  it  in  ana 
I'll  try  to  eat. 

RUTH.  I've  got  to  get  her  to  bed  first.  (She  goes  to  lift 
MARY  off  his  lap)  Come,  dear.  It's  after  time  and  you  can 
hardly  keep  your  eyes  open  now. 

MARV.  (crying)  No,  no!  (Appealing  to  her  father)  Dada! 
No! 

RUTH,  (accusingly  to  ROBERT)  There !  Now  see  what 
you've  done!  I  told  you  not  to — 

ROBERT,  (shortly)  Let  her  alone,  then.  She's  all  right 
where  she  is.  She'll  fall  asleep  on  my  lap  in  a  minute  if  you'll 
stop  bothering  her. 

RUTH,  (hotly)  She'll  not  do  any  such  thing!  She's  got 
to  learn  to  mind  me !  (Shaking  her  finger  at  MARY)  You 
naughty  child !  Will  you  come  with  Mama  when  she  tells  you 
for  your  own  good? 

MARY,      (clinging   to  her  father)      No,  Dada! 

RUTH,  (losing  her  temper)  A  good  spanking's  what  you 
need,  my  young  lady — and  you'll  get  one  from  me  if  you  don'*, 
mind  better,  d'you  hear?  (MARY  starts  to  whimper  frightenedly). 


66  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ROBERT,  (with  sudden  anger)  Leave  her  alone !  How  often 
have  I  told  you  not  to  threaten  her  with  whipping?  I  won't 
have  it.  (Soothing  the  wailing  MARY)  There!  There,  little 
girl !  Baby  mustn't  cry.  Dada  won't  like  you  if  you  do. 
Dada'll  hold  you  and  you  must  promise  to  go  to  sleep  like 
a  good  little  girl.  Will  you  when  Dada  asks  you? 

MARY,      (cuddling  up  to  him)     Yes,  Dada. 

RUTH,  (looking  at  them,  her  pale  face  set  and  drawn)  A 
fine  one  you  are  to  he  telling  folks  how  to  do  things !  (She 
bites  her  lips.  Husband  and  wife  look  into  each  other's  eyes 
with  something  akin  to  hatred  in  their  expressions;  then  RUTH 
turns  away  with  a  shrug  of  affected  indifference)  All  right, 
take  care  of  her  then,  if  you  think  it's  so  easy.  (She  walks 
away  into  the  kitchen). 

ROBERT,  (smoothing  MARY'S  hair — tenderly)  We'll  show 
Mama  you're  a  good  little  girl,  won't  we? 

MARY,      (crooning  drowsily)      Dada,  Dada. 

ROBERT.  Let's  see:  Does  your  mother  take  off  your  shoes 
and  stockings  before  your  nap? 

MARY,      (nodding  with   half-shut   eyes)      Yes,   Dada. 

ROBERT,  (taking  off  her  shoes  and  stockings)  We'll  show 
Mama  we  know  how  to  do  those  things,  won't  we?  There's 
one  old  shoe  off — and  there's  the  other  old  shoe — and  here's 
one  old  stocking — and  there's  the  other  old  stocking.  There 
we  are,  all  nice  and  cool  and  comfy.  (He  bends  down  and 
kisses  her)  And  now  will  you  promise  to  go  right  to  sleep  if 
Dada  takes  you  to  bed?  (MARY  nods  sleepily)  That's  the 
good  little  girl.  (He  gathers  her  up  in  his  arms  carefully 
and  carries  her  into  the  bedroom.  His  voice  can  be  heard 
faintly  as  he  lulls  the  child  to  sleep.  RUTH  comes  out  of  the 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  67 

kitchen  and  gets  the  plate  from  the  table.  She  hears  the  voice 
from  the  room  and  tiptoes  to  the  door  to  look  in.  Then  she 
starts  for  the  kitchen  but  stands  for  a  moment  thinking,  a  look 
of  ill-concealed  jealousy  on  her  face.  At  a  noise  from  inside 
she  hurriedly  disappears  into  the  kitchen.  A  moment  later 
ROBERT  re-enters.  He  comes  forward  and  picks  up  the  shoes 
and  stockings  which  he  shoves  carelessly  under  the  table.  Then, 
seeing  no  one  about,  he  goes  to  the  sideboard  and  selects  a 
book.  Coming  back  to  his  chair,  he  sits  down  and  immediately 
becomes  absorbed  in  reading.  RTTH  returns  from  the  kitchen 
bringing  his  plate  heaped  with  food,  and  a  cup  of  tea.  She 
sets  those  before  him  and  sits  down  in  her  former  place. 
ROBERT  continues  to  read,  oblivious  to  the  food  on  the  table). 

RUTH,  (after  watching  him  irritably  for  a  moment)  For 
heaven's  sakes,  put  down  that  old  book!  Don't  you  see  your 
dinner's  petting  cold? 

ROBERT,  (closing  his  book)  Excuse  me,  Ruth.  I  didn't 
notice.  (He  picks  up  his  knife  and  fork  and  begins  to  eat 
gingerly,  without  appetite). 

RUTH.  I  should  think  you  might  have  some  feeling  for  me, 
Rob,  and  not  always  be  late  for  meals.  If  you  think  it's  fun 
sweltering  in  that  oven  of  a  kitchen  to  keep  things  warm  for 
you,  you're  mistaken. 

ROBERT.  I'm  sorry,  Ruth,  really  I  am.  Something  crops  up 
every  day  to  delay  me.  I  mean  to  be  here  on  time. 

RUTH,      (with    a   sigh)      Mean-tos   don't    count. 

ROBERT,  (with  a  conciliating  smile)  Then  punish  me,  Ruth. 
Let  the  food  get  cold  and  don't  bother  about  me. 

RUTH.  I'd  have  to  wait  just  the  same  to  wash  up  after 
you. 


68  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ROBERT.     But  I  can  wash  up. 

RUTH.     A  nice  mess  there'd  be  then! 

ROBERT,  (with  an  attempt  at  lightness)  The  food  is  lucky 
to  be  able  to  get  cold  this  weather.  (As  RUTH  doesn't  answer 
or  smile  he  opens  his  book  and  resumes  his  reading^  -forcing 
himself  to  take  a  mouthful  of  food  every  now  and  then.  RUTH 
stares  at  him  in  annoyance}. 

RUTH.  And  besides,  you've  got  your  own  work  that's  got  to 
be  done. 

ROBERT,  (absent-mindedly,  without  taking  his  eyes  from  the 
book)  Yes,  of  course. 

RUTH,  (spitefully)  Work  you'll  never  get  done  by  reading 
books  all  the  time. 

ROBERT,  (shutting  the  book  with  a  snap)  Why  do  you 
persist  in  nagging  at  me  for  getting  pleasure  out  of  reading? 
Is  it  because (He  checks  himself  abruptly). 

RUTH,  (coloring)  Because  I'm  too  stupid  to  understand 
them,  I  s'posc  you  were  going  to  say. 

ROBERT,  (shame-facedly)  No — no.  (In  exasperation)  Why 
do  you  goad  me  into  saying  things  I  don't  mean?  Haven't 
I  got  my  share  of  troubles  trying  to  work  this  cursed  farm 
without  your  adding  to  them?  You  know  how  hard  I've  tried 
to  keep  things  going  in  spite  of  bad  luck 

RUTH,      (scornfully)      Bad  luck! 

ROBERT.  And  my  own  very  apparent  unfitness  for  the  job, 
I  was  going  to  add;  but  you  can't  deny  there's  been  bad 
luck  to  it,  too.  Why  don't  you  '-ake  things  into  consideration? 
Why  can't  we  pull  together?  We  used  to.  I  know  it's  hard 
on  you  also.  Then  why  can't  we  help  each  other  instead  of 
hindering? 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON 


RUTH,      (sullenly)      I   do  the  best   I   know  how. 

ROBERT,  (gets  up  and  puts  his  hand  on  her  shoulder)  I 
know  you  do.  But  let's  both  of  us  try  to  do  better.  We  can 
both  improve.  Say  a  word  of  encouragement  once  in  a  while 
when  things  go  wrong,  even  if  it  is  my  fault.  You  know  the 
odds  I've  been  up  against  since  Pa  died.  I'm  not  a  farmer. 
I've  never  claimed  to  be  one.  But  there's  nothing  else  I  can 
do  under  the  circumstances,  and  I've  got  to  pull  things  through 
somehow.  With  your  help,  I  can  do  it.  With  you  against 

me (He  shrugs  his  shoulders.  There  is  a  pause.  Then  he 

bends  dorm  and  kisses  her  hair — with  an  attempt  at  cheerful 
ness)  So  you  promise  that;  and  I'll  promise  to  be  here  when 
the  clock  strikes — and  anything  else  you  tell  me  to.  Is  it  a 
bargain  ? 

RUTH,  (dully)  I  s'pose  so.  (They  are  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  a  loud  knock  at  the  kitchen  door)  There's  someone 
at  the  kitchen  door.  (She  hurries  out.  A  moment  later  she 
reappears)  It's  Ben. 

ROBERT,  (frowning)  What's  the  trouble  now,  I  wonder? 
(In  a  loud  voice)  Come  on  in  here,  Ben.  (BEN  slouches  in 
from  the  kitchen.  He  is  a  hulking,  awkward  young  fellow  with 
a  heavy,  stupid  face  and  shifty,  cunning  eyes.  He  is  dressed 
in  overalls,  boots,  etc.,  and  wears  a  broad-brimmed  hat  of  coarse 
straw  pushed  back  on  his  head)  Well.  Ben,  what's  the  matter? 

BEN.      (draii'lingly)     The  mowin'  machine's  bust. 

ROBERT.  Why,  that  can't  be.  The  man  fixed  it  only  last 
week 

BEN.     It's  bust  just  the  same. 

ROBERT.     And  can't  vou  fix  it? 


70  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

BEN.  No.  Don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  the  goll- 
darned  thing.  'Twon't  work,  anyhow. 

ROBERT,  (getting  up  and  going  for  his  hat)  Wait  a  minute 
and  I'll  go  look  it  over.  There  can't  be  much  the  matter 
with  it. 

BEN.  (impudently)  Don't  make  no  diff rence  t'  me  whether 
there  be  or  not.  I'm  quittin*. 

ROBERT,  (anxiously)  You  don't  mean  you're  throwing  up 
your  job  here? 

BEN.  That's  what !  My  month's  up  today  and  I  want  what's 
owin'  t'  me. 

ROBERT.  But  why  are  you  quitting  now,  Ben,  when  you 
know  I've  so  much  work  on  hand?  I'll  have  a  hard  time  getting 
another  man  at  such  short  notice. 

BEN.     That's  for  you  to  figger.     I'm  quittin'. 

ROBERT.  But  what's  your  reason?  You  haven't  any  com 
plaint  to  make  about  the  way  you've  been  treated,  have  you? 

BEN.  No.  'Tain't  that.  (Shaking  his  finger)  Look-a-here. 
I'm  sick  o'  being  made  fun  at,  that's  what;  an'  I  got  a  job  up 
to  Timms'  place;  an'  I'm  quittin'  here. 

ROBERT.  Being  made  fun  of?  I  don't  understand  you. 
Who's  making  fun  of  you? 

BEN.  They  all  do.  When  I  drive  down  with  the  milk  in 
the  mornin'  they  all  laughs  and  jokes  at  me — that  boy  up 
to  Harris'  and  the  new  feller  up  to  Slocum's,  and  Bill  Evans 
down  to  Meade's,  and  all  the  rest  on  'em. 

ROBERT.  That's  a  queer  reason  for  leaving  me  flat.  Won't 
they  laugh  at  you  just  the  same  when  you're  working  for 
Timms? 

BEN.     They  wouldn't  dare  to.     Timms  is  the  best  farm  here- 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  71 

abouts.  They  was  laughin'  at  me  for  workin'  for  you,  that's 
what!  "How're  things  up  to  the  Mayo  place?"  they  hollers 
every  mornin'.  "What's  Robert  doin'  now — pasturin'  the  cattle 
in  the  cornlot?  Is  he  seasonin'  his  hay  with  rain  this  year, 
same  as  last?"  they  shouts.  "Or  is  he  inventin'  some  'lectrical 
milkin'  engine  to  fool  them  dry  cows  o'  his  into  givin'  hard 
cider?"  (Very  much  ruffled)  That's  like  they  talks;  and  I 
ain't  goin'  to  put  up  with  it  no  longer.  Everyone's  always 
knowed  me  as  a  first-class  hand  hereabouts,  and  I  ain't  wantin' 
'em  to  get  no  different  notion.  So  I'm  quittin'  you.  And  I 
wants  what's  comin'  to  me. 

ROBERT,  (coldly)  Oh,  if  that's  the  case,  you  can  go  to  the 
devil.  You'll  get  your  money  tomorrow  when  I  get  back  from 
town — not  before  ! 

BEN.  (turning  to  doorway  to  kitchen)  That  suits  me.  (As 
he  goes  out  he  speaks  back  over  his  shoulder)  And  see  that 
I  do  get  it,  or  there'll  be  trouble.  (He  disappears  and  the  slam 
ming  of  the  kitchen  door  is  heard). 

ROBERT,  (as  RUTH  comes  from  where  she  has  been  standing 
by  the  doorway  and  sits  down  dejectedly  in  her  old  place) 
The  stupid  damn  fool!  And  now  what  about  the  haying?  That's 
an  example  of  what  I'm  up  against.  No  one  can  say  I'm  re 
sponsible  for  that. 

RUTH.  He  wouldn't  dare  act  that  way  with  anyone  else! 
(Spitefully,  with  a  glance  at  ANDREW'S  letter  on  the  table)  It's 
lucky  Andy's  coming  back. 

ROBERT,  (without  resentment)  Yes,  Andy '11  see  the  right 
thing  to  do  in  a  jiffy.  (With  an  affectionate  smile)  I  wonder 
if  the  old  chump's  changed  much?  He  doesn't  seem  to  from 
his  letters,  does  he?  (Shaking  his  head)  But  just  the  same 


72  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

I  doubt  if  he'll  want  to  settle  down  to  a  hum-drum  farm  life, 
after  all  he's  been  through. 

RUTH,  {resentfully)  Andy's  not  like  you.  He  likes  the 
farm. 

ROBERT,  (immersed  in  his  own  thoughts — enthusiastically) 
Gad,  the  things  he's  seen  and  experienced !  Think  of  the  places 
he's  been!  All  the  wonderful  far  places  I  used  to  dream 
about!  God,  how  I  envy  him!  What  a  trip!  (He  springs  to 
his  feet  and  instinctively  goes  to  the  window  and  stares  out  at 
the  horizon). 

RUTH,      (bitterly)     I  s'pose  you're  sorry  now  you  didn't  go? 

ROBERT,  (too  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts  to  hear  her — 
vindictively)  Oh,  those  cursed  hills  out  there  that  I  used  to 
think  promised  me  so  much !  How  I've  grown  to  hate  the  sight 
of  them!  They're  like  the  walls  of  a  narrow  prison  yard 
shutting  me  in  from  all  the  freedom  and  wonder  of  life !  (He 
turns  back  to  the  room  with  a  gesture  of  loathing)  Sometimes 
I  think  if  it  wasn't  for  you,  Ruth,  and — (his  voice  softening) — 
little  Mary,  I'd  chuck  everything  up  and  walk  down  the  road 
with  just  one  desire  in  my  heart — to  put  the  whole  rim  of  the 
world  between  me  and  those  hills,  and  be  able  to  breathe  freely 
once  more!  (He  sinks  down  into  his  chair  and  smiles  with 
bitter  self -scorn)  There  I  go  dreaming  again— -my  old  fool 
dreams. 

RUTH,  (in  a  low,  repressed  voice — her  eyes  smoldering) 
You're  not  the  only  one! 

ROBERT,  (buried  in  his  own  thoughts — bitterly)  And  Andy, 
who's  had  the  chance — what  has  he  got  out  of  it?  His  let 
ters  read  like  the  diary  of  a — of  a  farmer!  "We're  in  Singa 
pore  now.  It's  a  dirty  hole  of  a  place  and  hotter  than  hell. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  73 

Two  of  the  crew  are  down  with  fever  and  we're  short-handed 
on  the  work.  I'll  be  damn  glad  when  we  sail  again,  although 
tacking  back  and  forth  in  these  blistering  seas  is  a  rotten  job 
too!"  (Scornfully)  That's  about  the  way  he  summed  up  his 
impressions  of  the  East. 

RUTH,  (her  repressed  voice  trembling)  You  needn't  make 
fun  of  Andy. 

ROBERT.  ,When  I  think — but  what's  the  use?  You  know 
I  wasn't  making  fun  of  Andy  personally,  but  his  attitude  toward 
things  is 

RUTH,  (her  eyes  flashing — bursting  into  uncontrollable  rage) 
You  was  too  making  fun  of  him !  And  I  ain't  going  to  stand 
for  it!  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!  (ROBERT  stares 
at  her  in  amazement.  She  continues  furiously)  A  fine  one  to 
talk  about  anyone  else — after  the  way  you've  ruined  everything 
with  your  lazy  loafing ! — and  the  stupid  way  you  do  things  ! 

ROBERT,      (angrily)     Stop  that  kind  of  talk,  do  you  hear? 

RUTH.  You  findin'  fault — with  your  own  brother  who's  ten 
times  the  man  you  ever  was  or  ever  will  be!  You're  jealous, 
that's  what !  Jealous  because  he's  made  a  man  of  himself,  while 

you're   nothing  but   a — but   a (She   stutters    incoherently , 

overcome  by  rage). 

ROBERT.     Ruth !     Ruth  !     You'll  be  sorry  for  talking  like  that. 

RUTH.  I  won't!  I  won't  never  be  sorry!  I'm  only  saying 
what  I've  been  thinking  for  years. 

ROBERT,      (aghast)     Ruth!     You  can't  mean  that! 

RUTH.  What  do  you  think — living  with  a  man  like  you — 
having  to  suffer  all  the  time  because  you've  never  been  man 
enough  to  work  and  do  things  like  other  people.  But  no! 
You  never  own  up  to  that.  You  think  you're  so  much  better 


74  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

than  other  folks,  with  your  college  education,  where  you  never 
learned  a  thing,  and  always  reading  your  stupid  books  instead 
of  working.  I  s'pose  you  think  I  ought  to  be  proud  to  be  your 
wife — a  poor,  ignorant  thing  like  me!  (Fiercely)  But  I'm  not. 
I  hate  it!  I  hate  the  sight  of  you.  Oh,  if  I'd  only  known! 
If  I  hadn't  been  such  a  fool  to  listen  to  your  cheap,  silly, 
poetry  talk  that  you  learned  out  of  books !  If  I  could  have 
seen  how  you  were  in  your  true  self — like  you  are  now — I'd 
have  killed  myself  before  I'd  have  married  you!  I  was  sorry 
for  it  before  we'd  been  together  a  month.  I  knew  what  you 
were  really  like — when  it  was  too  late. 

ROBERT,  (his  voice  raised  loudly)  And  now — I'm  finding 
out  what  you're  really  like — what  a — a  creature  I've  been  living 
with.  (With  a  harsh  laugh)  God!  It  wasn't  that  I  haven't 
guessed  how  mean  and  small  you  are — but  I've  kept  on  telling 
myself  that  I  must  be  wrong — like  a  fool ! — like  a  damned 
fool! 

RUTH.  You  were  saying  you'd  go  out  on  the  road  if  it  wasn't 
for  me.  Well,  you  can  go,  and  the  sooner  the  better !  I  don't 
care !  I'll  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  you !  The  farm'll  be  better  off 
too.  There's  been  a  curse  on  it  ever  since  you  took  hold. 
So  go !  Go  and  be  a  tramp  like  you've  always  wanted.  It's 
all  you're  good  for.  I  can  get  along  without  you,  don't  you 
worry.  (Exulting  fiercely)  Andy's  coming  back,  don't  forget 
that !  He'll  attend  to  things  like  they  should  be.  He'll  show 
what  a  man  can  do!  I  don't  need  you.  Andy's  coming! 

ROBERT,  (they  are  both  standing.  ROBERT  grabs  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  glares  into  her  eyes)  What  do  you  mean?  (He 
shakes  her  violently)  What  are  you  thinking  of?  What's  in 
your  evil  mind,  you — you (His  voice  is  a  harsh  shout). 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  75 

RUTH,  (in  a  defiant  scream)  Yes  I  do  mean  it!  I'd  say 
it  if  you  was  to  kill  me !  I  do  love  Andy.  I  do !  I  do !  I 
always  loved  him.  (Exultantly)  And  he  loves  me!  He  loves 
me !  I  know  he  does.  He  always  did !  And  you  know  he 
did,  too !  So  go !  Go  if  you  want  to ! 

ROBERT,  (throwing  her  away  from  him.  She  staggers  back 
against  the  table — thickly)  You — you  slut!  (He  stands  glar 
ing  at  her  as  she  leans  back,  supporting  herself  by  the  table, 
gasping  for  breath.  A  loud  frightened  whimper  sounds  from 
the  awakened  child  in  the  bedroom.  It  continues.  The  man 
and  woman  stand  looking  at  one  another  in  horror ,  the  extent 
of  their  terrible  quarrel  suddenly  brought  home  to  them.  A 
pause.  The  noise  of  a  horse  and  carriage  comes  from  the  road 
before  the  house.  The  two,  suddenly  struck  by  the  same  premo 
nition,  listen  to  it  breathlessly,  as  to  a  sound  heard  in  a  dream. 
It  stops.  They  hear  ANDY'S  voice  from  the  road  shouting  a  long 
hail— "Ahoy  there!") 

RUTH,  (with  a  strangled  cry  of  joy)  Andy!  Andy!  (She 
rushes  and  grabs  the  knob  of  the  screen  door,  about  to  fling  it 
open). 

ROBERT,  (in  a  voice  of  command  that  forces  obedience) 
Stop!  (He  goes  to  the  door  and  gently  pushes  the  trembling 
RUTH  away  from  it.  The  child's  crying  rises  to  a  louder  pitch) 
I'll  meet  Andy.  You  better  go  in  to  Mary,  Ruth.  (She  looks 
at  him  defiantly  for  a  moment,  but  there  is  something  in  his 
eyes  that  makes  her  turn  and  walk  slowly  into  the  bedroom). 

ANDY'S  VOICE,      (in  a  louder  shout)     Ahoy  there,  Rob! 

ROBERT,  (in  an  answering  shout  of  forced  cheeriness)  Hello, 
Andy !  (He  opens  the  door  and  walks  out  a* 

(The  Curtain  Falls) 


ACT  TWO 

SCENE  Two 

The  top  of  a  hill  on  the  farm.  It  is  about  eleven  o'clock  the 
next  morning.  The  day  is  hot  and  cloudless.  In  the  distance 
the  sea  can  be  seen. 

The  top  of  the  hill  slopes  downward  slightly  toward  the  left. 
A  big  boulder  stands  in  the  center  toward  the  rear.  Further 
right,  a  large  oak  tree.  The  faint  trace  of  a  path  leading  up 
ward  to  it  from  the  left  foreground  can  be  detected  through 
the  bleached,  sun-scorched  grass. 

ROBERT  is  discovered  sitting  on  the  boulder,  his  chin  resting 
on  his  hands,  staring  out  toward  the  horizon  seaward.  His  face 
is  pale  and  haggard,  his  expression  one  of  utter  despondency. 
MARY  i*  sitting  on  the  grass  near  him  in  the  shade,  playing  with 
her  doll,  singing  happily  to  herself.  Presently  she  casts  a 
curious  glance  at  her  father,  and,  propping  her  doll  up  against 
the  tree,  comes  over  and  clambers  to  his  side. 

MARY,      {pulling  at  his  hand — solicitously}     Dada  sick? 

ROBERT,  (looking  at  her  with  a  forced  smile)  No,  dear. 
Why? 

MARY.     Play   wif   Mary. 

ROBERT,  (gently)  No,  dear,  not  today.  Dada  doesn't  feel 
like  playing  today. 

MARY,      (protestingly)      Yes,  Dada! 

ROBERT.     No,  dear.     Dada  does  feel  sick — a  little.     He's  got 

a  bad  headache. 

76 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  77 

MARY.  Mary  see.  (He  bend*  his  head.  She  pats  his  hair) 
Bad  head. 

ROBERT,  (kissing  her — with  a  smile)  There!  It's  better 
now,  dear,  thank  you.  (She  cuddles  up  close  against  him.  There 
is  a  pause  during  which  each  of  them  looks  out  seaward)  Finally 
ROBERT  turns  to  her  tenderly)  Would  you  like  Dada  to  go 
away? — far,  far  away? 

MARY,      (tearfully)     No!     No!     No,  Dada,  no! 

ROBERT.  Don't  you  like  Uncle  Andy — the  man  that  came 
yesterday — not  the  old  man  with  the  white  mustache — the  other? 

MARY.     Mary  loves  Dada. 

ROBERT,  (with  fierce  determination)  He  won't  go  away, 
baby.  He  was  only  joking.  He  couldn't  leave  his  little  Mary. 
(He  presses  the  child  in  his  arms). 

MARY,      (with  an  exclamation  of  pain)     Oh!     Hurt! 

ROBERT.  I'm  sorry,  little  girl.  (He  lifts  her  down  to  the 
grass)  Go  play  with  Dolly,  that's  a  good  girl;  and  be  careful 
to  keep  in  the  shade.  (She  reluctantly  leaves  him  and  takes 
up  her  doll  again.  A  moment  later  she  points  down  the  hill  to 
the  lit). 

MARY.     Mans,  Dada. 

ROBERT,  (looking  that  way)  It's  your  Uncle  Andy.  (A 
moment  later  ANDREW  comes  up  from  the  left,  whistling  cheer 
fully.  He  has  changed  but  little  in  appearance,  except  for 
the  fact  that  his  face  has  been  deeply  bronzed  by  his  yeart  in 
the  tropics;  but  there  is  a  decided  change  in  his  manner.  The 
old  easy-going  good-nature  seems  to  have  been  partly  lost  in  a 
breezy,  business-like  briskness  of  voice  and  gesture.  There  if 
an  authoritative  note  in  his  speech  as  though  he  were  accus 
tomed  to  give  orders  and  have  them  obeyed  as  a  matter  of 


78  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

course.  He  is  dressed  in  the  simple  blue  uniform  and  cap  of 
a  merchant  ship's  officer). 

ANDREW.     Here  you  are,  eh? 

ROBERT.     Hello,  Andy. 

ANDREW,  (going  over  to  MARY)  And  who's  this  young  lady 
I  find  you  all  alone  with,  eh?  Who's  this  pretty  young  lady? 
(He  tickles  the  laughingf  squirming  MARY,  then  lifts  her  up  at 
arm's  length  over  his  head)  Upsy — daisy!  (He  sets  her  down 
on  the  ground  again)  And  there  you  are!  (He  walks  over 
and  sits  down  on  the  boulder  beside  ROBERT  who  moves  to  one 
side  to  make  room  for  him)  Ruth  told  me  I'd  probably  find 
you  up  top-side  here;  but  I'd  have  guessed  it,  anyway.  (He 
digs  his  brother  in  the  ribs  affectionately)  Still  up  to  your 
old  tricks,  you  old  beggar !  I  can  remember  how  you  used  to 
come  up  here  to  mope  and  dream  in  the  old  days. 

ROBERT,  (with  a  smile)  I  come  up  here  now  because  it's 
the  coolest  place  on  the  farm.  I've  given  up  dreaming. 

ANDREW,  (grinning)  I  don't  believe  it.  You  can't  have 
changed  that  much.  (After  a  pause — with  boyish  enthusiasm) 
Say,  it  sure  brings  back  old  times  to  be  up  here  with  you  having 
a  chin  all  by  our  lonesomes  again.  I  feel  great  being  back 
home. 

ROBERT.     It's  great  for  us  to  have  you  back. 

ANDREW,  (after  a  pause — meaningly)  I've  been  looking 
over  the  old  place  with  Ruth.  Things  don't  seem  to  be 

ROBERT,  (his  face  flushing — interrupts  his  brother  shortly) 
Never  mind  the  damn  farm!  Let's  talk  about  something  in 
teresting.  This  is  the  first  chance  I've  had  to  have  a  word 
with  you  alone.  Tell  me  about  your  trip. 

ANDREW.     Why,  I  thought  I  told  you  everything  in  my  letters. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  79 

ROBERT,  (smiling)  Your  letters  were — sketchy,  to  say  the 
least. 

ANDREW.  Oh,  I  know  I'm  no  author.  You  needn't  be  afraid 
of  hurting  my  feelings.  I'd  rather  go  through  a  typhoon  again 
than  write  a  letter. 

ROBERT,  (with  eager  interest)  Then  you  were  through  a 
typhoon  ? 

ANDREW.  Yes — in  the  China  sea.  Had  to  run  before  it 
under  bare  poles  for  two  days.  I  thought  we  were  bound 
down  for  Davy  Jones,  sure.  Never  dreamed  waves  could  get 
so  big  or  the  wind  blow  so  hard.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Uncle 
Dick  being  such  a  good  skipper  we'd  have  gone  to  the  sharks, 
all  of  us.  As  it  was  we  came  out  minus  a  main  top-mast  and 
had  to  beat  back  to  Hong-Kong  for  repairs.  But  I  must  have 
written  you  all  this. 

ROBERT.     You   never  mentioned   it. 

ANDREW.  Well,  there  was  so  much  dirty  work  getting  things 
ship-shape  again  I  must  have  forgotten  about  it. 

ROBERT.  (looking  at  ANDREW — marveling)  Forget  a  ty 
phoon?  (u'ith  a  trace  of  scorn)  You're  a  strange  combina 
tion,  Andy.  And  is  what  you've  told  me  all  you  remembei 
about  it? 

ANDREW.  Oh,  I  could  give  you  your  bellyful  of  details  if 
I  wanted  to  turn  loose  on  you.  It  was  all-wool-and-a-yard- 
wide-Hell,  I'll  tell  you.  You  ought  to  have  been  there.  I 
remember  thinking  about  you  at  the  worst  of  it,  and  saying  to 
myself:  "This'd  cure  Rob  of  them  ideas  of  his  about  the  beau 
tiful  sea,  if  he  could  see  it."  And  it  would  have  too,  you  bet! 
(He  nods  emphatically}. 


80  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ROBERT,  (dryly)  The  sea  doesn't  seem  to  have  impressed 
you  very  favorably. 

ANDREW.  I  should  say  it  didn't !  I'll  never  set  foot  on  a 
ship  again  if  I  can  help  it — except  to  carry  me  some  place  I 
can't  get  to  by  train. 

ROBERT.     But  you  studied  to  become  an  officer ! 

ANDREW.  Had  to  do  something  or  I'd  gone  mad.  The  days 
were  like  years.  (He  laughs)  And  as  for  the  East  you  used 
to  rave  about — well,  you  ought  to  see  it,  and  smell  it!  One 
walk  down  one  of  their  filthy  narrow  streets  with  the  tropic 
sun  beating  on  it  would  sicken  you  for  life  with  the  "wonder 
and  mystery"  you  used  to  dream  of. 

ROBERT,  (shrinking  from  his  brother  with  a  glance  of  aver 
sion)  So  all  you  found  in  the  East  was  a  stench? 

ANDREW.     A  stench  !     Ten  thousand  of  them ! 

ROBERT.  But  you  did  like  some  of  the  places,  judging  from 
your  letters — Sydney,  Buenos  Aires 

ANDREW.  Yes,  Sydney's  a  good  town.  (Enthusiastically) 
But  Buenos  Aires — there's  the  place  for  you.  Argentine's  a 
country  where  a  fellow  has  a  chance  to  make  good.  You're 
right  I  like  it.  And  I'll  tell  you,  Rob,  that's  right  where  I'm 
going  just  as  soon  as  I've  seen  you  folks  a  while  and  can  get 
a  ship.  I  can  get  a  berth  as  second  officer,  and  I'll  jump  the 
ship  when  I  get  there.  I'll  need  every  cent  of  the  wages 
Uncle's  paid  me  to  get  a  start  at  something  in  B.  A. 

ROBERT,  (staring  at  his  brother — slowly)  So  you're  not 
going  to  stay  on  the  farm? 

ANDREW.  Why  sure  not!  Did  you  think  I  was?  There 
wouldn't  be  any  sense.  One  of  us  is  enough  to  run  this  little 
place. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  81 

ROBERT.     I  suppose  it  does  seem  small  to  you  now. 

ANDREW,  (not  noticing  the  sarcasm  in  ROBERT'S  foee) 
You've  no  idea,  Rob,  what  a  splendid  place  Argentine  is.  I 
had  a  letter  from  a  marine  insurance  chap  that  I'd  made 
friends  with  in  Hong-Kong  to  his  brother,  who's  in  the  grain 
business  in  Buenos  Aires.  He  took  quite  a  fancy  to  me,  and 
what's  more  important,  he  offered  me  a  job  if  I'd  come  back 
there.  I'd  have  taken  it  on  the  spot,  only  I  couldn't  leave 
Uncle  Dick  in  the  lurch,  and  I'd  promised  you  folks  to  come 
home.  But  I'm  going  back  there,  you  bet,  and  then  you  watch 
me  get  on!  (He  slaps  ROBERT  on  the  back)  But  don't  you 
think  it's  a  big  chance,  Rob? 

ROBERT.     It's  fine — for  you,  Andy. 

ANDREW.  We  call  this  a  farm — but  you  ought  to  hear  about 
the  farms  down  there — ten  square  miles  where  we've  got  an 
acre.  It's  a  new  country  where  big  things  arc  opening  u\j 
—and  I  want  to  get  in  on  something  big  before  I  die.  I'm 
no  fool  when  it  comes  to  farming,  and  I  know  something  about 
grain.  I've  been  reading  up  a  lot  on  it,  too,  lately.  (He 
notices  ROBERT'S  absent-minded  expression  and  laughs)  Wake 
up,  you  old  poetry  book  worm,  you!  I  know  my  talking  about 
business  makes  you  want  to  choke  me,  doesn't  it? 

ROBERT,  (with  an  embarrassed  smile)  No,  Andy,  I — I  just 
happened  to  think  of  something  else.  (Frowning)  There've 
been  lots  of  times  lately  that  I've  wished  I  had  some  of  your 
faculty  for  business. 

ANDREW,  (soberly)  There's  something  I  want  to  talk  about, 
Rob, — the  farm.  You  don't  mind,  do  you? 

ROBERT.     No. 

ANDREW.     I    walked    over    it   this    morning   with    Ruth — and 


82  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

she  told  me  about  things (Evasively)  I  could  see  the 

place  had  run  down;  but  you  mustn't  blame  yourself.  When 
luck's  against  anyone 

ROBERT.  Don't,  Andy !  It  is  my  fault.  You  know  it  as 
well  as  I  do.  The  best  I've  ever  done  was  to  make  ends 
meet. 

ANDREW,  (after  a  pause)  I've  got  over  a  thousand  saved, 
and  you  can  have  that. 

ROBERT,  (firmly)  No.  You  need  that  for  your  start  in 
Buenos  Aires. 

ANDREW.     I  don't.      I   can 

ROBERT,  (determinedly)  No,  Andy!  Once  and  for  all,  no! 
I  won't  hear  of  it! 

ANDREW,      (protestingly)      You   obstinate   old   son  of  a   gun ! 

ROBERT.  Oh,  everything'll  be  on  a  sound  footing  after  harvest. 
Don't  worry  about  it. 

ANDREW,  (doubtfully)  Maybe.  (After  a  pause)  It's  too 
bad  Pa  couldn't  have  lived  to  see  things  through.  (With  feel 
ing)  It  cut  me  up  a  lot — hearing  he  was  dead.  He  never 
— softened  up,  did  he — about  me,  I  mean? 

ROBERT.  He  never  understood,  that's  a  kinder  way  of  put 
ting  it.  He  does  now. 

ANDREW,  (after  a  pause)  You've  forgotten  all  about  what 
— caused  me  to  go,  haven't  you,  Rob?  (ROBERT  nods  but  keeps 
his  face  averted)  I  was  a  slushier  damn  fool  in  those  days 
than  you  were.  But  it  was  an  act  of  Providence  I  did  go- 
It  opened  my  eyes  to  how  I'd  been  fooling  myself.  Why; 
I'd  forgotten  all  about — that — before  I'd  been  at  sea  six 
months. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON 


ROBERT,  (turns  and  looks  into  ANDREW'S  eyes  searchingly) 
You're  speaking  of — Ruth? 

ANDREW,  (confused)  Yes.  I  didn't  want  you  to  get  false 
notions  in  your  head,  or  I  wouldn't  say  anything.  (Looking 
ROBERT  squarely  in  the  eyes)  I'm  telling  you  the  truth  when 
I  say  I'd  forgotten  long  ago.  It  don't  sound  well  for  me, 
getting  over  things  so  easy,  but  I  guess  it  never  really  amounted 
to  more  than  a  kid  idea  I  was  letting  rule  me.  I'm  certain  now 
I  never  was  in  love — I  was  getting  fun  out  of  thinking  I  was 
— and  being  a  hero  to  myself.  (He  heaves  a  great  sigh  of 
relief)  There!  Gosh,  I'm  glad  that's  off  my  chest.  I've 
been  feeling  sort  of  awkward  ever  since  I've  been  home,  think 
ing  of  what  you  two  might  think.  (A  trace  of  appeal  in  his 
voice)  You've  got  it  all  straight  now,  haven't  you,  Rob? 

ROBERT,      (in   a   low   voice)      Yes,   Andy. 

ANDREW.  And  I'll  tell  Ruth,  too,  if  I  can  get  up  the  nerve. 
She  must  feel  kind  of  funny  having  me  round — after  what  used 
to  be — and  not  knowing  how  I  feel  about  it. 

ROBERT,  (slowly)  Perhaps — for  her  sake — you'd  better 
not  tell  her. 

ANDREW.  For  her  sake?  Oh,  you  mean  she  wouldn't  want 
to  be  reminded  of  my  foolishness?  Still,  I  think  it'd  be  worse 
if— 

ROBERT,  (breaking  out — in  an  agonized  voice)  Do  as  you 
please,  Andy;  but  for  God's  sake,  let's  not  talk  about  it!  (There 
is  a  pause.  ANDREW  stares  at  ROBERT  in  hurt  stupefaction. 
ROBERT  continues  after  a  moment  in  a  voice  which  he  vainly 
attempts  to  keep  calm)  Excuse  me,  Andy.  This  rotten  head 
ache  has  my  nerves  shot  to  pieces. 


84  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ANDREW,  (mumbling)  It's  all  right,  Rob — long  as  you're 
not  sore  at  me. 

ROBERT.     Where  did  Uncle  Dick  disappear  to  this  morning? 

ANDREW.  He  went  down  to  the  port  to  see  to  things  on  the 
Sunda.  He  said  he  didn't  know  exactly  when  he'd  be  back. 
I'll  have  to  go  down  and  tend  to  the  ship  when  he  comes.  That's 
why  I  dressed  up  in  these  togs. 

MARY,  (pointing  down  the  hill  to  the  left)  See !  Mama ! 
Mama !  (She  struggles  to  her  feet.  RUTH  appears  at  left.  She 
is  dressed  in  white,  shows  she  has  been  fixing  up.  She  look* 
pretty,  flushed  and  full  of  life). 

MARY,      (running  to  her  mother)     Mama ! 

RUTH,  (kissing  her)  Hello,  dear!  (She  walks  toward  the 
rock  and  addresses  ROBERT  coldly)  Jake  wants  to  see  you  about 
something.  He  finished  working  where  he  was.  He's  waiting 
for  you  at  the  road. 

ROBERT,  (getting  up — wearily)  I'll  go  down  right  away. 
(As  he  looks  at  RUTH,  noting  her  changed  appearance,  his  face 
darkens  with  pain). 

RUTH.  And  take  Mary  with  you,  please.  (To  MARY)  Go 
with  Dada,  that's  a  good  girl.  Grandma  has  your  dinner  most 
ready  for  you. 

ROBERT,      (shortly)      Come,  Mary! 

MARY,  (taking  his  hand  and  dancing  happily  beside  him) 
Dada!  Dada!  (They  go  down  the  hill  to  the  left.  RUTH 
looks  after  them  for  a  moment,  frowning — then  turns  to  ANDY 
with  a  smile)  I'm  going  to  sit  down.  Come  on,  Andy.  It'll 
be  like  old  times.  (She  jumps  lightly  to  the  top  of  the  rock 
<ind  sits  down)  It's  so  fine  and  cool  up  here  after  the  house. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  85 

ANDREW,  (half-sitting  on  the  side  of  the  boulder)  Yes. 
It's  great. 

RUTH.  I've  taken  a  holiday  in  honor  of  your  arrival.  (Laugh 
ing  excitedly)  I  feel  so  free  I'd  like  to  have  wings  and  fly 
over  the  sea.  You're  a  man.  You  can't  know  how  awful  and 
stupid  it  is — cooking  and  washing  dishes  all  the  time. 

ANDREW,      (making  a  wry  face)     I  can  guess. 

RUTH.  Besides,  your  mother  just  insisted  on  getting  your 
first  dinner  to  home,  she's  that  happy  at  having  you  back. 
You'd  think  I  was  planning  to  poison  you  the  flurried  way  she 
shooed  me  out  of  the  kitchen. 

ANDREW.     That's  just  like  Ma,  bless  her! 

RUTH.  She's  missed  you  terrible.  We  all  have.  And  you 
can't  deny  the  farm  has,  after  what  I  showed  you  and  told  you 
when  we  was  looking  over  the  place  this  morning. 

ANDREW,  (with  a  frown)  Things  are  run  down,  that's  a 
fact !  It's  too  darn  hard  on  poor  old  Rob. 

RUTH,  (scornfully)  It's  his  own  fault.  He  never  takes 
any  interest  in  things. 

ANDREW,  (reprovingly)  You  can't  blame  him.  He  wasn't 
born  for  it;  but  I  know  he's  done  his  best  for  your  sake  and 
the  old  folks  and  the  little  girl. 

RUTH,  (indifferently)  Yes,  I  suppose  he  has.  (Gayly)  But 
thank  the  Lord,  all  those  days  are  over  now.  The  "hard  luck" 
Rob's  always  blaming  won't  last  long  when  you  take  hold, 
Andy.  All  the  farm's  ever  needed  was  someone  with  the 
knack  of  looking  ahead  and  preparing  for  what's  going  to 
happen. 

ANDREW.  Yes,  Rob  hasn't  got  that.  He's  frank  to  own  up 
to  that  himself.  I'm  going  to  try  and  hire  a  good  man  for 


86  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

him — an  experienced  farmer — to  work  the  place  on  a  salary 
and  percentage.  That'll  take  it  off  of  Rob's  hands,  and  he 
needn't  be  worrying  himself  to  death  any  more.  He  looks  all 
worn  out,  Ruth.  He  ought  to  be  careful. 

RUTH,  {absent-mindedly)  Yes,  I  s'pose.  (Her  mind  is 
filed  with  premonitions  by  the  first  part  of  his  statement) 
Why  do  you  want  to  hire  a  man  to  oversee  things?  Seems  as  if 
now  that  you're  back  it  wouldn't  be  needful. 

ANDREW.  Oh,  of  course  I'll  attend  to  everything  while  I'm 
here.  I  mean  after  I'm  gone. 

RUTH,      (as  if  she  couldn't  believe  her  ears)      Gone ! 

ANDREW.     Yes.     When  I  leave  for  the  Argentine  again. 

RUTH,      (aghast)     You're  going  away  to  sea ! 

ANDREW.  Not  to  sea,  no;  I'm  through  with  the  sea  for  good 
as  a  job.  I'm  going  down  to  Buenos  Aires  to  get  in  the  grain 
business. 

RUTH.     But — that's  far  off — isn't  it? 

ANDREW,  (easily)  Six  thousand  miles  more  or  less.  It's 
quite  a  trip.  (With  enthusiasm)  I've  got  a  peach  of  a  chance 
down  there,  Ruth.  Ask  Rob  if  I  haven't.  I've  just  been  telling 
him  all  about  it. 

RUTH,  (a  flush  of  anger  coming  over  her  face)  And  didn't 
he  try  to  stop  you  from  going? 

ANDREW,      (in  surprise)      No,  of  course  not.     Why? 

RUTH,  (slowly  and  vindictively)  That's  just  like  him— 
not  to. 

ANDREW,  (resentfully)  Rob's  too  good  a  chum  to  try  and 
stop  me  when  he  knows  I'm  set  on  a  thing.  And  he  could 
see  just  as  soon's  I  told  him  what  a  good  chance  it  was. 

RUTH,      (dazedly)     And  you're  bound  on  going? 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  87 

ANDREW.  Sure  thing.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  right  off.  I'll  have 
to  wait  for  a  ship  sailing  there  for  quite  a  while,  likely.  Any 
way,  I  want  to  stay  to  home  and  visit  with  you  folks  a  spell 
before  I  go. 

RUTH,  (dumbly)  I  s'pose.  (With  sudden  anguish)  Oh, 
Andy,  you  can't  go !  You  can't.  Why  we've  all  thought — 
we've  all  been  hoping  and  praying  you  was  coming  home  to 
stay,  to  settle  down  on  the  farm  and  see  to  things.  You 
mustn't  go !  Think  of  how  your  Ma'll  take  on  if  you  go — 
and  how  the  farm'll  be  ruined  if  you  leave  it  to  Rob  to  look 
after.  You  can  see  that. 

ANDREW,  (frowning)  Rob  hasn't  done  so  bad.  When  I 
get  a  man  to  direct  things  the  farm'll  be  safe  enough. 

RUTH,      (insistently)      But  your  Ma — think  of  her. 

ANDREW.  She's  used  to  me  being  away.  She  won't  object 
when  she  knows  it's  best  for  her  and  all  of  us  for  me  to  go. 
You  ask  Rob.  In  a  couple  of  years  down  there  I'll  make  my 
pile,  see  if  I  don't;  and  then  I'll  come  back  and  settle  down 
and  turn  this  farm  into  the  crackiest  place  in  the  whole  state. 
In  the  meantime,  I  can  help  you  both  from  down  there. 
(Earnestly)  I  tell  you,  Ruth,  I'm  going  to  make  good  right 
from  the  minute  I  land,  if  working  hard  and  a  determination 
to  get  on  can  do  it ;  and  I  know  they  can !  (Excitedly — in  a 
rather  boastful  tone)  I  tell  you,  I  feel  ripe  for  bigger  things 
than  settling  down  here.  The  trip  did  that  for  me,  anyway. 
It  showed  me  the  world  is  a  larger  proposition  than  ever  I 
thought  it  was  in  the  old  days.  I  couldn't  be  content  any  more 
stuck  here  like  a  fly  in  molasses.  It  all  seems  trifling,  some 
how.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  understand  what  I  feel. 

RUTH,      (dully)      Yes — I  s'pose  I  ought.      (After  a  pause — a 


88  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

sudden  suspicion  forming  in  her  mind)  What  did  Rob  tell  you 
—-about  me? 

ANDREW.     Tell?     About  you?     Why,  nothing. 

RUTH,  (staring  at  him  intensely)  Are  you  telling  me  the 
truth,  Andy  Mayo?  Didn't  he  say — I (She  stops  con 
fusedly). 

ANDREW,  (surprised)  No,  he  didn't  mention  you,  I  can 
remember.  Why?  What  made  you  think  he  did? 

RUTH,  (wringing  her  hands)  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  tell  if 
you're  lying  or  not ! 

ANDREW,  (indignantly)  What're  you  talking  about?  I 
didn't  used  to  lie  to  you,  did  I?  And  what  in  the  name  of 
God  is  there  to  lie  for? 

RUTH,  (still  unconvinced)  Are  you  sure — will  you  swear — 

it  isn't  the  reason (She  lowers  her  eyes  and  half  turns 

away  from  him)  The  same  reason  that  made  you  go  last  time 
that's  driving  you  away  again?  'Cause  if  it  is — I  was  going  to 
say — you  mustn't  go — on  that  account.  (Her  voice  sinks  to  a 
tremulous,  tender  whisper  as  she  finishes). 

ANDREW,  (confused — forces  a  laugh)  Oh,  is  that  what 
you're  driving  at?  Well,  you  needn't  worry  about  that  no 
more (Soberly)  I  don't  blame  you,  Ruth,  feeling  em 
barrassed  having  me  around  again,  after  the  way  I  played 
the  dumb  fool  about  going  away  last  time. 

RUTH,     (her  hope  crushed — with  a  gasp  of  pain)     Oh,  Andy ! 

ANDREW,  (misunderstanding)  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  talk 
about  such  foolishness  to  you.  Still  I  figure  it's  better  to  get 
it  out  of  my  system  so's  we  three  can  be  together  same's  years 
ago,  and  not  be  worried  thinking  one  of  us  might  have  the 
wrong  notion 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  89 

RUTH.     Andy!     Please!     Don't! 

ANDREW.  Let  me  finish  now  that  I've  started.  It'll  help 
clear  things  up.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  once  a  fool  always 
a  fool,  and  be  upset  all  the  time  I'm  here  on  my  fool  account. 
I  want  you  to  believe  I  put  all  that  silly  nonsense  back  of  me 
a  long  time  ago — and  now — it  seems — well — as  if  you'd  always 
been  my  sister,  that's  what,  Ruth. 

RUTH,  (at  the  end  of  her  endurance — laughing  hysterically) 
For  God's  sake,  Andy — won't  you  please  stop  talking!  (She 
again  hides  her  face  in  her  hands,  her  bowed  shoulders  trem 
bling). 

ANDREW,  (ruefully)  Seem's  if  I  put  my  foot  in  it  whenever 
I  open  my  mouth  today.  Rob  shut  me  up  with  almost  the  same 
words  when  I  tried  speaking  to  him  about  it. 

RUTH,      (fiercely)     You  told  him — what  you've  told  me? 

ANDREW,      (astounded)     Why  sure !     Why  not  ? 

RUTH,      (shuddering)      Oh,  my  God ! 

ANDREW,      (alarmed)     Why?     Shouldn't  I  have? 

RUTH,  (hysterically)  Oh,  I  don't  care  what  you  do !  I 
don't  care !  Leave  me  alone !  (ANDREW  gets  up  and  walks 
down  the  hill  to  the  left,  embarrassed,  hurt,  and  greatly  puzzled 
by  her  behavior). 

ANDREW,  (after  a  pause — pointing  down  the  hill)  Hello! 
Here  they  come  back — and  the  Captain's  with  them.  How'd 
he  come  to  get  back  so  soon,  I  wonder?  That  means  I've  got 
to  hustle  down  to  the  port  and  get  on  board.  Rob's  got  the 
baby  with  him.  (He  comes  back  to  the  boulder.  RUTH  keeps 
her  face  averted  from  him)  Gosh,  I  never  saw  a  father  so 
tied  up  in  a  kid  as  Rob  is!  He  just  watches  every  move  she 
makes.  And  I  don't  blame  him.  You  both  got  a  right  to  feel 


90  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

proud  of  her.  She's  surely  a  little  winner.  {He  glances  at 
RUTH  to  see  if  this  very  obvious  attempt  to  get  back  in  her  good 
graces  is  having  any  effect}  I  can  see  the  likeness  to  Rob 
standing  out  all  over  her,  can't  you?  But  there's  no  denying 
she's  your  young  one,  either.  There's  something  about  her 
eyes 

RUTH,  (piteously}  Oh,  Andy,  I've  a  headache!  I  don't 
want  to  talk!  Leave  me  alone,  won't  you  please? 

ANDREW,  (stands  staring  at  her  for  a  moment — then  walks 
away  saying  in  a  hurt  tone}  :  Everybody  hereabouts  seems  to 
be  on  edge  today.  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  I'm  not  wanted  around. 
(He  stands  near  the  path,  left,  kicking  at  the  grass  with  the  toe 
of  his  shoe.  A  moment  later  CAPTAIN  DICK  SCOTT  enters,  fol 
lowed  by  ROBERT  carrying  MARY.  The  CAPTAIN  seems  scarcely 
to  have  changed  at  all  from  the  jovial,  booming  person  he  was 
three  years  before.  He  wears  a  uniform  similar  to  ANDREW'S. 
He  is  puffing  and  breathless  from  his  climb  and  mops  wildly  at 
his  perspiring  countenance.  ROBERT  casts  a  quick  glance  at 
ANDREW,  noticing  the  latter's  discomfited  look,  and  then  turns 
his  eyes  on  RUTH  who,  at  their  approach,  has  moved  so  her  back 
is  toward  them,  her  chin  resting  on  her  hands  as  she  stares  out 
seaward} . 

MARY.  Mama !  Mama !  (ROBERT  puts  her  down  and  she 
runs  to  her  mother.  RUTH  turns  and  grabs  her  up  in  her  arms 
with  a  sudden  fierce  tenderness,  quickly  turning  away  again 
from  the  others.  During  the  following  scene  she  keeps  MARY 
in  her  arms}. 

SCOTT,  (wheezily}  Phew !  I  got  great  news  for  you,  Andy. 
Let  me  get  my  wind  first.  Phew !  God  A'mighty,  mountin' 
this  damned  hill  is  worser'n  goin'  aloft  to  the  skys'l  yard  in  a 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  91 

blow.  I  got  to  lay  to  a  while.  (He  sits  down  on  the  grass, 
mopping  his  face). 

ANDREW.     I  didn't  look  for  you  this  soon,  Uncle. 

SCOTT.  I  didn't  figger  it,  neither;  but  I  run  across  a  bit  o' 
news  down  to  the  Seamen's  Home  made  me  'bout  ship  and  set 
all  sail  back  here  to  find  you. 

ANDREW,      (eagerly)     What  is  it,  Uncle? 

SCOTT.  Passin'  by  the  Home  I  thought  I'd  drop  in  an'  let 
'em  know  I'd  be  lackin'  a  mate  next  trip  count  o'  your  leavin'. 
Their  man  in  charge  o'  the  shippin'  asked  after  you  'special 
curious.  "Do  you  think  he'd  consider  a  berth  as  Second  on  a 
steamer,  Captain?"  he  asks.  I  was  goin'  to  say  no  when  I 
thinks  o'  you  wantin'  to  get  back  down  south  to  the  Plate 
agen;  so  I  asks  him:  "What  is  she  and  where's  she  bound?" 
"She's  the  El  Paso,  a  brand  new  tramp,"  he  says,  "and  she's 
bound  for  Buenos  Aires." 

ANDREW,  (his  eyes  lighting  up — excitedly)  Gosh,  that  is 
luck!  When  does  she  sail? 

SCOTT.  Tomorrow  mornin'.  I  didn't  know  if  you'd  want  to 
ship  away  agen  so  quick  an'  I  told  him  so.  "Tell  him  I'll  hold 
the  berth  open  for  him  until  late  this  afternoon,"  he  says.  So 
there  you  be,  an'  you  can  make  your  own  choice. 

ANDREW.  I'd  like  to  take  it.  There  may  not  be  another  ship 
for  Buenos  Aires  with  a  vacancy  in  months.  (His  eyes  roving 
from  ROBERT  to  RUTH  and  back  again — uncertainly)  Still — 
damn  it  all — tomorrow  morning  is  soon.  I  wish  she  wasn't 
leaving  for  a  week  or  so.  That'd  give  me  a  chance — it  seems 
hard  to  go  right  away  again  when  I've  just  got  home.  And 

yet  it's  a  chance  in  a  thousand (Appealing  to  ROBERT) 

What  do  you  think,  Rob?  What  would  you  do? 


92  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ROBERT,  (forcing  a  smile)  He  who  hesitates,  you  know. 
(Frowning')  It's  a  piece  of  good  luck  thrown  in  your  way — 
and — I  think  you  owe  it  to  yourself  to  jump  at  it.  But  don't 
ask  me  to  decide  for  you. 

RUTH,  (turning  to  look  at  ANDREW — in  a  tone  of  fierce  re 
sentment)  Yes,  go,  Andy!  (She  turns  quickly  away  again. 
There  is  a  moment  of  embarrassed  silence). 

ANDREW,  (thoughtfully)  Yes,  I  guess  I  will.  It'll  be  the 
best  thing  for  all  of  us  in  the  end,  don't  you  think  so,  Rob? 
(ROBERT  nods  but  remains  silent). 

SCOTT,      (getting  to  his  feet)     Then,  that's  settled. 

ANDREW,  (now  that  he  has  definitely  made  a  decision  his 
voice  rings  with  hopeful  strength  and  energy)  Yes,  I'll  take 
the  berth.  The  sooner  I  go  the  sooner  I'll  be  back,  that's  a 
certainty;  and  I  won't  come  back  with  empty  hands  next  time. 
You  bet  I  won't ! 

SCOTT.  You  ain't  got  so  much  time,  Andy.  To  make  sure 
you'd  best  leave  here  soon's  you  kin.  I  got  to  get  right  back 
aboard.  You'd  best  come  with  me. 

ANDREW.     I'll  go  to  the  house  and  repack  my  bag  right  away. 

ROBERT,  (quietly)  You'll  both  be  here  for  dinner,  won't 
you? 

ANDREW,  (worriedly)  I  don't  know.  Will  there  be  time? 
What  time  is  it  now,  I  wonder? 

ROBERT,  (reproachfully)  Ma's  been  getting  dinner  espe 
cially  for  you,  Andy. 

ANDREW,  (flushing — shamefacedly)  Hell !  And  I  was  for 
getting  !  Of  course  I'll  stay  for  dinner  if  I  missed  every  damned 
ship  in  the  world.  (He  turns  to  the  CAPTAIN — briskly)  Come 
on,  Uncle.  Walk  down  with  me  to  the  house  and  you  can  tell 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  93 

me  more  about  this  berth  on  the  way.  I've  got  to  pack  before 
dinner.  (He  and  the  CAPTAIN  start  down  to  the  left.  ANDREW 
calls  back  over  his  shoulder)  You're  coming  soon,  aren't  you, 
Rob? 

ROBERT.  Yes.  I'll  be  right  down.  (ANDREW  and  the  CAP 
TAIN  leave.  RUTH  puts  MARY  on  the  ground  and  hides  her  face 
in  her  hands.  Her  shoulders  shake  as  if  she  were  sobbing. 
ROBERT  stares  at  her  with  a  grim,  somber  expression.  MARY 
walks  backward  toward  ROBERT,  her  wondering  eyes  fixed  on  her 
mother). 

MARY,  (her  voice  vaguely  frightened ,  taking  her  father's 
hand)  Dada,  Mama's  cryin',  Dada. 

ROBERT,  (bending  down  and  stroking  her  hair — in  a  voice 
he  endeavors  to  keep  from  being  harsh)  No,  she  isn't,  little 
girl.  The  sun  hurts  her  eyes,  that's  all.  Aren't  you  beginning 
to  feel  hungry,  Mary? 

MARY,      (decidedly)      Yes,  Dada. 

ROBERT,      (meaningly)      It  must  be  your  dinner  time  now. 

RUTH,  (in  a  muffled  voice)  I'm  coming,  Mary.  (She  wipes 
her  eyes  quickly  and,  without  looking  at  ROBERT,  comes  and 
takes  MARY'S  hand — in  a  dead  voice)  Come  on  and  I'll  get  your 
dinner  for  you.  (She  walks  out  left,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground,  the  skipping  MARY  tugging  at  her  hand.  ROBERT  waits 
a  moment  for  them  to  get  ahead  and  then  slowly  follows  as 

(The   Curtain   Falls) 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON 
ACT  THREE 


ACT  THREE 

SCENE  ONE 

Same  as  Act  Two,  Scene  One — The  sitting  room  of  the  farm 
house  about  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  a  day  toward  the  end 
of  October  -five  years  later.  It  is  not  yet  dawn,  but  as  the 
action  progresses  the  darkness  outside  the  windows  gradually 
fades  to  gray. 

The  room,  seen  by  the  light  of  the  shadeless  oil  lamp  with  a 
smoky  chimney  which  stands  on  the  table,  presents  an  appear 
ance  of  decay,  of  dissolution.  The  curtains  at  the  windows  are 
torn  and  dirty  and  one  of  them  is  missing.  The  closed  desk  is 
gray  with  accumulated  dust  as  if  it  had  not  been  used  in  years. 
Blotches  of  dampness  disfigure  the  wall  paper.  Threadbare 
trails,  leading  to  the  kitchen  and  outer  doors,  show  in  the  faded 
carpet.  The  top  of  the  coverless  table  is  stained  with  the  im 
prints  of  hot  dishes  and  spilt  food.  The  rung  of  one  rocker  has 
been  clumsily  mended  with  a  piece  of  plain  board.  A  brown 
coating  of  rust  covers  the  unblocked  stove.  A  pile  of  wood  is 
stacked  up  carelessly  against  the  wall  by  the  stove. 

The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  room,  contrasted  with  that  of 
former  years,  is  one  of  an  habitual  poverty  too  hopelessly  re 
signed  to  be  any  longer  ashamed  or  even  conscious  of  itself. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  RUTH  is  discovered  sitting  by  the 
stove,  with  hands  outstretched  to  the  warmth  as  if  the  air  in  the 
room  were  damp  and  cold.  A  heavy  shawl  is  wrapped  about 

her  shoulders,  half-concealing  her  dress  of  deep  mourning.     She 

97 


98  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

has  aged  horribly.  Her  pale,  deeply  lined  face  has  the  stony 
lack  of  expression  of  one  to  whom  nothing  more  can  ever  happen, 
whose  capacity  for  emotion  has  been  exhausted.  When  she 
speaks  her  voice  is  without  timbre,  low  and  monotonous.  The 
negligent  disorder  of  her  dress,  the  slovenly  arrangement  of 
her  hair,  now  streaked  with  gray,  her  muddied  shoes  run  down 
at  the  heel,  give  full  evidence  of  the  apathy  in  which  she  lives. 

Her  mother  is  asleep  in  her  wheel  chair  beside  the  stove  to 
ward  the  rear,  wrapped  up  in  a  blanket. 

There  is  a  sound  from  the  open  bedroom  door  in  the  rear  as 
if  someone  were  getting  out  of  bed.  RUTH  turns  in  that  direction 
with  a  look  of  dull  annoyance.  A  moment  later  ROBERT  appears 
in  the  doorway,  leaning  weakly  against  it  for  support.  His  hair 
is  long  and  unkempt,  his  face  and  body  emaciated.  There  are 
bright  patches  of  crimson  over  his  cheek  bones  and  his  eyes  are 
burning  with  fever.  He  is  dressed  in  corduroy  pants,  a  flannel 
shirt,  and  wears  worn  carpet  slippers  on  his  bare  feet. 

RUTH,      (dully)     S-s-s-h- !    Ma's  asleep. 

ROBERT,  (speaking  with  an  effort)  I  won't  wake  her.  (He 
walks  weakly  to  a  rocker  by  the  side  of  the  table  and  sinks  down 
in  it  exhausted). 

RUTH,  (staring  at  the  stove)  You  better  come  near  the  fire 
where  it's  warm. 

ROBERT.     No.      I'm  burning  up  now. 

RUTH.  That's  the  fever.  You  know  the  doctor  told  you  not 
to  get  up  and  move  round. 

ROBERT,  (irritably)  That  old  fossil !  He  doesn't  know  any 
thing.  Go  to  bed  and  stay  there — that's  his  only  prescription. 

RUTH,      (indifferently)      How  are  you  feeling  now? 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  99 

ROBERT,  (buoyantly)  Better!  Much  better  than  I've  felt 
in  ages.  Really  I'm  fine  now — only  very  weak.  It's  the  turn 
ing  point,  I  guess.  From  now  on  I'll  pick  up  so  quick  I'll 
surprise  you — and  no  thanks  to  that  old  fool  of  a  country  quack, 
either. 

RUTH.     He's  always  tended  to  us. 

ROBERT.  Always  helped  us  to  die,  you  mean!  He  "tended" 
to  Pa  and  Ma  and — (hi*  voice  breaks) — and  to — Mary. 

RUTH,  (dully)  He  did  the  best  he  knew,  I  s'pose.  (After 
a  pause)  Well,  Andy's  bringing  a  specialist  with  him  when  he 
comes.  That  ought  to  suit  you. 

ROBERT,      (bitterly)      Is  that  why  you're  waiting  up  all  night? 

RUTH.     Yes. 

ROBERT.     For  Andy? 

RUTH,  (without  a  trace  of  feeling)  Somebody  had  got  to. 
It's  only  right  for  someone  to  meet  him  after  he's  been  gone 
five  years. 

ROBERT,  (with  bitter  mockery)  Five  years!  It's  a  long 
time. 

RUTH.     Yes. 

ROBERT,      (meaningly)      To  wait! 

RUTH,      (indifferently)      It's  past  now. 

ROBERT.  Yes,  it's  past.  (After  a  pause)  Have  you  got  his 
two  telegrams  with  you?  (RUTH  nods)  Let  me  see  them,  will 
you?  My  head  was  so  full  of  fever  when  they  came  I  couldn't 
make  head  or  tail  to  them.  (Hastily)  But  I'm  feeling  fine 
now.  Let  me  read  them  again.  (RUTH  takes  them  from  the 
bosom  of  her  dress  and  hands  them  to  him). 

RUTH.     Here.     The  first  one's  on  top. 

ROBERT,      (opening     it)      New     York.      "Just     landed     from 


100  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

steamer.  Have  important  business  to  wind  up  here.  Will  be 
home  as  soon  as  deal  is  completed."  (He  smiles  bitterly)  Busi 
ness  first  was  always  Andy's  motto  (He  reads)  "Hope  you 
are  all  well.  Andy."  (He  repeats  ironically)  "Hope  you  are 
all  well!" 

RUTH,  (dully)  He  couldn't  know  you'd  been  took  sick  till 
I  answered  that  and  told  him. 

ROBERT,  (contritely)  Of  course  he  couldn't.  I'm  a  fool. 
I'm  touchy  about  nothing  lately.  Just  what  did  you  say  in 
your  reply? 

RUTH,      (inconsequentially)      I  had  to  send  it  collect. 

ROBERT,  (irritably)  What  did  you  say  was  the  matter  with 
me? 

RUTH.     I  wrote  you  had  lung  trouble. 

ROBERT,  (flying  into  a  petty  temper)  You  are  a  fool !  How 
often  have  I  explained  to  you  that  it's  pleurisy  is  the  matter 
with  me.  You  can't  seem  to  get  it  in  your  head  that  the  pleura 
is  outside  the  lungs,  not  in  them! 

RUTH,      (callously)      I  only  wrote  what  Doctor  Smith  told  me. 

ROBERT,      (angrily)      He's  a  damned  ignoramus ! 

RUTH,  (dully)  Makes  no  difference.  I  had  to  tell  Andy 
something,  didn't  I? 

ROBERT,  (after  a  pausef  opening  the  other  telegram)  He 
sent  this  last  evening.  Let's  see.  (He  reads)  "Leave  for 
home  on  midnight  train.  Just  received  your  wire.  Am  bringing 
specialist  to  see  Rob.  Will  motor  to  farm  from  Port."  (He 
calculates)  What  time  is  it  now? 

RUTH.     Round  six,  must  be. 

ROBERT.     He  ought  to  be  here  soon.     I'm  glad  he's  bringing 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  101 

a  doctor  who  knows  something.  A  specialist  will  tell  you  in  a 
second  that  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  my  lungs. 

RUTH,      (stolidly)     You've  been  coughing  an  awful  lot  lately. 

ROBERT,  (irritably)  What  nonsense !  For  God's  sake, 
haven't  you  ever  had  a  bad  cold  yourself?  (RUTH  stares  at  the 
stove  in  silence.  ROBERT  fidgets  in  his  chair.  There  is  a  pause. 
Finally  ROBERT'S  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  sleeping  MRS.  ATKINS) 
Your  mother  is  lucky  to  be  able  to  sleep  so  soundly. 

RUTH.  Ma's  tired.  She's  been  sitting  up  with  me  most  of  the 
night. 

ROBERT,  (mockingly)  Is  she  waiting  for  Andy,  too?  (There 
is  a  pause.  ROBERT  sighs)  I  couldn't  get  to  sleep  to  save  my 
soul.  I  counted  ten  million  sheep  if  I  counted  one.  No  use ! 
I  gave  up  trying  finally  and  just  laid  there  in  the  dark  think 
ing.  (He  pauses,  then  continues  in  a  tone  of  tender  sympathy) 
I  was  thinking  about  you,  Ruth — of  how  hard  these  last  years 
must  have  been  for  you.  (Appealingly)  I'm  sorry,  Ruth. 

RUTH,  (in  a  dead  voice)  I  don't  know.  They're  past  now. 
They  were  hard  on  all  of  us. 

ROBERT.  Yes;  on  all  of  us  but  Andy.  (With  a  flash  of  sick 
jealousy)  Andy's  made  a  big  success  of  himself — the  kind  he 
wanted.  (Mockingly)  And  now  he's  coming  home  to  let  us 
admire  his  greatness.  (Frowning — irritably)  What  am  I  talk 
ing  about?  My  brain  must  be  sick,  too.  (After  a  pause)  Yes, 
these  years  have  been  terrible  for  both  of  us.  (His  voice  is 
lowered  to  a  trembling  whisper)  Especially  the  last  eight 
months  since  Mary — died.  (He  forces  back  a  sob  with  a  con 
vulsive  shudder — then  breaks  out  in  a  passionate  agony)  Our 
last  hope  of  happiness!  I  could  curse  God  from  the  bottom 
of  my  soul — if  there  was  a  God!  (He  is  racked  by  a  violent 


102  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

jit  of  coughing  and  hurriedly  puts  his  handkerchief  to  his  lips). 

RUTH,  (without  looking  at  him)  Mary's  better  off — being 
dead. 

ROBERT,  (gloomily)  We'd  all  be  better  off  for  that  matter. 
(With  a  sudden  exasperation)  You  tell  that  mother  of  yours 
she's  got  to  stop  saying  that  Mary's  death  was  due  to  a  weak  con 
stitution  inherited  from  me.  (On  the  verge  of  tears  of  weakness) 
It's  got  to  stop,,  I  tell  you! 

RUTH,  (sharply)  S-h-h !  You'll  wake  her;  and  then  she'll 
nag  at  me — not  you. 

ROBERT,  (coughs  and  lies  back  in  his  chair  weakly — a  pause) 
It's  all  because  your  mother's  down  on  me  for  not  begging 
Andy  for  help. 

RUTH,      (resentfully)     You  might  have.     He's  got  plenty. 

ROBERT.  How  can  you  of  all  people  think  of  taking  money 
from  him? 

RUTH,  (dully)  I  don't  see  the  harm.  He's  your  own 
brother. 

ROBERT,  (shrugging  his  shoulders)  What's  the  use  of  talk 
ing  to  you?  Well,  I  couldn't.  (Proudly)  And  I've  managed 
to  keep  things  going,  thank  God.  You  can't  deny  that  without 

help  I've  succeeded  in (He  breaks  off  with  a  bitter  laugh) 

My  God,  what  am  I  boasting  of?  Debts  to  this  one  and  that, 
taxes,  interest  unpaid !  I'm  a  fool !  (He  lies  back  in  his  chair 
closing  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  speaks  in  a  low  voice) 
I'll  be  frank,  Ruth.  I've  been  an  utter  failure,  and  I've 
dragged  you  with  me.  I  couldn't  blame  you  in  all  justice — for 
hating  me. 

RUTH,  (without  feeling)  I  don't  hate  you.  It's  been  my 
fault  too,  I  s'pose. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  103 

ROBERT.     No.     You  couldn't  help  loving — Andy. 

RUTH,      (dully)      I  don't  love  anyone. 

ROBERT,  (waving  her  remark  aside)  You  needn't  deny  it. 
It  doesn't  matter.  (After  a  pause — with  a  tender  smile)  Do 
you  know  Ruth,  what  I've  been  dreaming  back  there  in  the 
dark?  (With  a  short  laugh)  I  was  planning  our  future  when 
I  get  well.  (He  looks  at  her  with  appealing  eyes  as  if  afraid 
she  will  sneer  at  him.  Her  expression  does  not  change.  She 
stares  at  the  stove.  His  voice  takes  on  a  note  of  eagerness) 
After  all,  why  shouldn't  we  have  a  future?  We're  young  yet. 
If  we  can  only  shake  off  the  curse  of  this  farm!_  It's  the  farm 
that's  ruined  our  lives,  damn  it!  And  now  that  Andy's  coming 
back — I'm  going  to  sink  my  foolish  pride,  Ruth!  I'll  borrow 
the  money  from  him  to  give  us  a  good  start  in  the  city.  We'll 
go  where  people  live  instead  of  stagnating,  and  start  all  over 
again.  (Confidently}  I  won't  be  the  failure  there  that  I've 
been  here,  Ruth.  You  won't  need  to  be  ashamed  of  me  there. 
I'll  prove  to  you  the  reading  I've  done  can  be  put  to  some  use. 

(Vaguely)  I'll  write,  or  something  of  that  sort. Tve  always 

wanted  to  write.  (Pleadingly)  You'll  want  to  do  that,  won't 
you,  Ruth? 

RUTH,      (dully)      There's  Ma. 

ROBERT.     She  can  come  with  us. 

RUTH.     She  wouldn't. 

ROBERT,  (angrily)  So  that's  your  answer!  (He  trembles 
with  violent  passion.  His  voice  is  so  strange  that  RUTH  turns 
to  look  at  him  in  alarm)  You're  lying,  Ruth!  Your  mother's 
just  an  excuse.  You  want  to  stay  here.  You  think  that  because 
Andy's  coming  back  that—  -  (He  chokes  and  has  an  attack  of 
coughing). 


104  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

RUTH,  (getting  up — in  a  frightened  voice)  What's  the  mat 
ter?  (She  goes  to  him)  I'll  go  with  you,  Rob.  Stop  that 
coughing  for  goodness'  sake !  It's  awful  bad  for  you.  (She 
soothes  him  in  dull  tones)  I'll  go  with  you  to  the  city — soon's 
you're  well  again.  Honest  I  will,  Rob,  I  promise !  (ROB  lies 
back  and  closes  his  eyes.  She  stands  looking  down  at  him 
anxiously)  Do  you  feel  better  now? 

ROBERT.  Yes.  (RUTH  goes  back  to  her  chair.  After  a  pause 
he  opens  his  eyes  and  sits  up  in  his  chair.  His  face  is  flushed 
and  happy)  Then  you  will  go,  Ruth? 

RUTH.     Yes. 

ROBERT,  (excitedly)  We'll  make  a  new  start,  Ruth — just 
you  and  I.  Life  owes  us  some  happiness  after  what  we've  been 
through.  (Vehemently)  It  must!  Otherwise  our  suffering 
would  be  meaningless — and  that  is  unthinkable. 

RUTH,  (worried  by  his  excitement)  Yes,  yes,  of  course, 
Rob,  but  you  mustn't 

ROBERT.  Oh,  don't  be  afraid.  I  feel  completely  well,  really 
I  do — now  that  I  can  hope  again.  Oh  if  you  knew  how  glorious 
it  feels  to  have  something  to  look  forward  to!  Can't  you  feel 
the  thrill  of  it,  too — the  vision  of  a  new  life  opening  up  after 
all  the  horrible  years? 

RUTH.     Yes,  yes,  but  do  be — 

ROBERT.  Nonsense!  I  won't  be  careful.  I'm  getting  back 
all  my  strength.  (He  gets  lightly  to  his  feet)  See!  I  feel 
light  as  a  feather.  (He  walks  to  her  chair  and  bends  down  to 
kiss  her  smilingly)  One  kiss — the  first  in  years,  isn't  it? — to 
greet  the  dawn  of  a  new  life  together. 

RUTH,  (submitting  to  his  kiss — worriedly)  Sit  down,  Rob, 
for  goodness'  sake ! 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  105 

ROBERT,  (with  tender  obstinacy — stroking  her  hair)  I  won't 
sit  down.  You're  silly  to  worry.  (He  rests  one  hand  on  the 
back  of  her  chair)  Listen.  All  our  suffering  has  been  a  test 
through  which  we  had  to  pass  to  prove  ourselves  worthy  of  a 
finer  realization.  (Exultingly)  And  we  did  pass  through  it! 
It  hasn't  broken  us !  And  now  the  dream  is  to  come  true ! 
Don't  you  see? 

RUTH,  (looking  at  him  with  frightened  eyes  as  if  she  thought 
he  had  gone  mad)  Yes,,  Rob,  I  see;  but  won't  you  go  back 
to  bed  now  and  rest? 

ROBERT.  No.  I'm  going  to  see  the  sun  rise.  It's  an  augury 
of  good  fortune.  (He  goes  quickly  to  the  window  in  the  rear 
left,  and  pushing  the  curtains  aside,  stands  looking  out.  RUTH 
springs  to  her  feet  and  comes  quickly  to  the  table,  left,  where 
she  remains  watching  ROBERT  in  a  tense,  expectant  attitude.  As 
he  peers  out  his  body  seems  gradually  to  sag,  to  grow  limp  and 
tired.  His  voice  is  mournful  as  he  speaks)  No  sun  yet.  It 
isn't  time.  All  I  can  see  is  the  black  rim  of  the  damned  hills 
outlined  against  a  creeping  grayness.  (He  turns  around;  letting 
the  curtains  fall  back,  stretching  a  hand  out  to  the  wall  to  sup 
port  himself.  His  false  strength  of  a  moment  has  evaporated 
leaving  his  face  drawn  and  hollow-eyed.  He  makes  a  pitiful 
attempt  to  smile)  That's  not  a  very  happy  augury,  is  it?  But 
the  sun'll  come — soon.  (He  sways  weakly),  i 

RUTH,  (hurrying  to  his  side  and  supporting  him)  Please 
go  to  bed,  won't  you,  Rob?  You  don't  want  to  be  all  wore  out 
when  the  specialist  comes,  do  you? 

ROBERT.  (quickly)  No.  That's  right.  He  mustn't  think 
I'm  sicker  than  I  am.  And  I  feel  as  if  I  could  sleep  now — 
(Cheerfully) — a  good,  sound,  restful  sleep. 


106  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

RUTH,  (helping  him  to  the  bedroom  door)  That's  what  you 
need  most.  (They  go  inside.  A  moment  later  she  reappears 
calling  back)  I'll  shut  this  door  so's  you'll  be  quiet.  (She 
closes  the  door  and  goes  quickly  to  her  mother  and  shakes  her 
by  the  shoulder)  Ma  !  Ma !  Wake  up  ! 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (coming  out  of  her  sleep  with  a  start)  Glory 
be!  What's  the  matter  with  you? 

RUTH.  It  was  Rob.  He's  just  been  talking  to  me  out  here. 
I  put  him  back  to  bed.  (Now  that  she  is  sure  her  mother  is 
awake  her  fear  passes  and  she  relapses  into  dull  indifference. 
She  sits  down  in  her  chair  and  stares  at  the  stove — dully)  He 
acted — funny;  and  his  eyes  looked  so — so  wild  like. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (with  asperity)  And  is  that  all  you  woke 
me  out  of  a  sound  sleep  for,  and  scared  me  near  out  of  my  wits? 

RUTH.  I  was  afraid.  He  talked  so  crazy.  I  couldn't  quiet 
him.  I  didn't  want  to  be  alone  with  him  that  way.  Lord 
knows  what  he  might  do. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (scornfully)  Humph!  A  help  I'd  be  to  you 
and  me  not  able  to  move  a  step !  Why  didn't  you  run  and  get 
Jake? 

RUTH,  (dully)  Jake  isn't  here.  He  quit  last  night.  He 
hasn't  been  paid  in  three  months. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (indignantly)  I  can't  blame  him.  What  de 
cent  person'd  want  to  work  on  a  place  like  this?  (With  sudden 
exasperation)  Oh,  I  wish  you'd  never  married  that  man! 

RUTH,  (wearily)  You  oughtn't  to  talk  about  him  now  when 
he's  sick  in  his  bed. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (working  herself  into  a  fit  of  rage)  You  know 
very  well,  Ruth  Mayo,  if  it  wasn't  for  me  helpin'  you  on  the 
sly  out  of  my  savin's,  you'd  both  been  in  the  poor  house — and 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  107 

all  'count  of  his  pigheaded  pride  in  not  lettin'  Andy  know  the 
state  thin's  were  in.  A  nice  thin'  for  me  to  have  to  support 
him  out  of  what  I'd  saved  for  my  last  days — and  me  an  invalid 
with  no  one  to  look  to! 

RUTH.  Andy '11  pay  you  back,  Ma.  I  can  tell  him  so's  Rob'll 
never  know. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (with  a  snort)  What'd  Rob  think  you  and 
him  was  livin'  on,  I'd  like  to  know? 

RUTH,  (dully}  He  didn't  think  about  it,  I  s'pose.  (After 
a  slight  pause}  He  said  he'd  made  up  his  mind  to  ask  Andy 
for  help  when  he  comes.  (As  a  clock  in  the  kitchen  strikes  six) 
Six  o'clock.  Andy  ought  to  get  here  directly. 

MRS.  ATKINS.  D'you  think  this  special  doctor '11  do  Rob  any 
good? 

RUTH,  (hopelessly)  I  don't  know.  (The  two  women  re 
main  silent  for  a  time  staring  dejectedly  at  the  stove). 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (shivering  irritably)  For  goodness'  sake  put 
some  wood  on  that  fire.  I'm  most  freezin' ! 

RUTH,  (pointing  to  the  door  in  the  rear)  Don't  talk  so 
loud.  Let  him  sleep  if  he  can.  (She  gets  wearily  from  the 
chair  and  puts  a  few  pieces  of  wood  in  the  stove)  This  is  the 
last  of  the  wood.  I  don't  know  who'll  cut  more  now  that  Jake's 
left.  (She  sighs  and  walks  to  the  window  in  the  rear,  left,  pulls 
the  curtains  aside,  and  looks  out}  It's  getting  gray  out.  (She 
comes  back  to  tke  stove)  Looks  like  it'd  be  a  nice  day.  (She 
stretches  out  her  hands  to  warm  them)  Must've  been  a  heavy 
frost  last  night.  We're  paying  for  the  spell  of  warm  weather 
we've  been  having.  (The  throbbing  whine  of  a  motor  sounds 
from  the  distance  outside). 


108  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (sharply)  S-h-h  !  Listen !  Ain't  that  an  auto 
I  hear? 

RUTH,      (without  interest)     Yes.     It's  Andy,  I  s'pose. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (with  nervous  irritation)  Don't  sit  there  like 
a  silly  goose.  Look  at  the  state  of  this  room!  What '11  this 
strange  doctor  think  of  us?  Look  at  that  lamp  chimney  all 
smoke!  Gracious  sakes,  Ruth 

RUTH,  (indifferently)  I've  got  a  lamp  all  cleaned  up  in  the 
kitchen. 

MRS.  ATKINS,  (peremptorily)  Wheel  me  in  there  this  min 
ute.  I  don't  want  him  to  see  me  looking  a  sight.  I'll  lay 
down  in  the  room  the  other  side.  You  don't  need  me  now  and 
I'm  dead  for  sleep.  (RUTH  wheels  her  mother  off  right.  The 
noise  of  the  motor  grows  louder  and  finally  ceases  as  the  car 
stops  on  the  road  before  the  farmhouse.  RUTH  returns  from  the 
kitchen  with  a  lighted  lamp  in  her  hand  which  she  sets  on  the 
table  beside  the  other.  The  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  path 
is  heard — then  a  sharp  rap  on  the  door.  RUTH  goes  and  opens 
it.  ANDREW  enters,  followed  by  DOCTOR  FAWCETT  carrying  a 
small  black  bag.  ANDREW  has  changed  greatly.  His  face  seems 
to  have  grown  highstrung,  hardened  by  the  look  of  decisiveness 
which  comes  from  being  constantly  under  a  strain  where  judg 
ments  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  are  compelled  to  be  aceurate. 
His  eyes  are  keener  and  more  alert.  There  is  even  a  suggestion 
of  ruthless  cunning  about  them.  At  present,  however,  his  ex 
pression  is  one  of  tense  anxiety.  DOCTOR  FAWCETT  is  a  short, 
dark,  middle-aged  man  with  a  Vandyke  beard.  He  wears 
glasses). 

RUTH.     Hello,  Andy!    I've  been  waiting 

ANDREW,      (kissing  her  hastily)      I  got  here  as  soon  as  I  could. 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  109 

(He  throws  off  his  cap  and  heavy  overcoat  on  the  table,  intro 
ducing  RUTH  and  the  DOCTOR  as  he  does  so.  He  is  dressed  in  an 
expensive  business  suit  and  appears  stouter)  My  sister-in-law, 
Mrs.  Mayo — Doctor  Fawcett.  (They  bow  to  each  other  silently. 
ANDREW  casts  a  quick  glance  about  the  room)  Where's  Rob? 

RUTH,      (pointing)      In  there. 

ANDREW.  I'll  take  your  coat  and  hat,  Doctor.  (As  he  helps 
the  DOCTOR  with  his  things)  Is  he  very  bad,  Ruth? 

RUTH,      (dully)      He's  been  getting  weaker. 

ANDREW.  Damn !  This  way,  Doctor.  Bring  the  lamp,  Ruth. 
(He  goes  into  the  bedroom,  followed  by  the  DOCTOR  and  RUTH 
carrying  the  clean  lamp.  RUTH  reappears  almost  immediately 
closing  the  door  behind  her,  and  goes  slowly  to  the  outside  door, 
which  she  opens,  and  stands  in  the  doorway  looking  out.  The 
sound  of  ANDREW'S  and  ROBERT'S  voices  comes  from  the  bedroom. 
A  moment  later  ANDREW  re-enters,  closing  the  door  softly.  He 
comes  forward  and  sinks  down  in  the  rocker  on  the  right  of 
table,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand.  His  face  is  drawn  in  a 
shocked  expression  of  great  grief.  He  sighs  heavily,  staring 
mournfully  in  front  of  him.  RUTH  turns  and  stands  watching  him. 
Then  she  shuts  the  door  and  returns  to  her  chair  by  the  stove, 
turning  it  so  she  can  face  him). 

ANDREW,  (glancing  up  quickly — in  a  harsh  voice)  How  long 
has  this  been  going  on  ? 

RUTH.     You  mean — how  long  has  he  been  sick? 

ANDREW,      (shortly)     Of  course!     What  else? 

RUTH.  It  was  last  summer  he  had  a  bad  spell  first,  but  he's 
been  ailin'  ever  since  Mary  died — eight  months  ago. 

ANDREW,  (harshly)  Why  didn't  you  let  me  know — cable 
me?  Do  you  want  him  to  die,  all  of  you?  I'm  damned  if  it 


110  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

doesn't  look  that  way !  (H is  voice  breaking)  Poor  old  chap ! 
To  be  sick  in  this  out-of-the-way  hole  without  anyone  to  attend 
to  him  but  a  country  quack !  It's  a  damned  shame ! 

RUTH,  (dully)  I  wanted  to  send  you  word  once,  but  he 
only  got  mad  when  I  told  him.  He  was  too  proud  to  ask  any 
thing,  he  said. 

ANDREW.  Proud?  To  ask  me?  (He  jumps  to  his  feet  and 
paces  nervously  back  and  forth)  I  can't  understand  the  way 
you've  acted.  Didn't  you  see  how  sick  he  was  getting?  Couldn't 
you  realize — why,  I  nearly  dropped  in  my  tracks  when  I  saw 
him!  He  looks — (He  shudders) — terrible!  (With  fierce  scorn) 
I  suppose  you're  so  used  to  the  idea  of  his  being  delicate  that 
you  took  his  sickness  as  a  matter  of  course.  God,  if  I'd  only 
known ! 

RUTH,  (without  emotion)  A  letter  takes  so  long  to  get 
where  you  were — and  we  couldn't  afford  to  telegraph.  We 
owed  everyone  already,  and  I  couldn't  ask  Ma.  She'd  been 
giving  me  money  out  of  her  savings  till  she  hadn't  much  left. 
Don't  say  anything  to  Rob  about  it.  I  never  told  him.  He'd 
only  be  mad  at  me  if  he  knew.  But  I  had  to,  because — God 
knows  how  we'd  have  got  on  if  I  hadn't. 

ANDREW.  You  mean  to  say (His  eyes  seem  to  take  in 

the  poverty-stricken  appearance  of  the  room  for  the  first  time) 

You  sent  that  telegram  to  me  collect.  Was  it  because 

(RUTH  nods  silently.  ANDREW  pounds  on  the  table  with  his 
fist)  Good  God!  And  all  this  time  I've  been — why  I've  had 
everything!  (He  sits  down  in  his  chair  and  pulls  it  close  to 
RUTH'S — impulsively)  But — I  can't  get  it  through  my  head. 
Why?  Why?  What  has  happened?  How  did  it  ever  come 
about?  Tell  me! 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  111 

RUTH,  (dully)  There's  nothing  much  to  tell.  Things  kept 
getting  worse,  that's  all — and  Rob  didn't  seem  to  care.  He 
never  took  any  interest  since  way  back  when  your  Ma  died. 
After  that  he  got  men  to  take  charge,  and  they  nearly  all 
cheated  him — he  couldn't  tell — and  left  one  after  another.  Then 
after  Mary  died  he  didn't  pay  no  heed  to  anything  any  more — 
just  stayed  indoors  and  took  to  reading  books  again.  So  J 
had  to  ask  Ma  if  she  wouldn't  help  us  some. 

ANDREW,  (surprised  and  horrified)  Why,  damn  it,  this  is 
frightful !  Rob  must  be  mad  not  to  have  let  me  know.  Too 
proud  to  ask  help  of  me!  What's  the  matter  with  him  in  God's 
name?  (A  sudder,,  horrible  suspicion  entering  his  mind)  Ruth! 
Tell  me  the  truth.  His  mind  hasn't  gone  back  on  him,  has  it? 

RUTH,  (dully)  I  don't  know.  Mary's  dying  broke  him  up 
terrible — but  he's  used  to  her  being  gone  by  this,  I  s'pose. 

ANDREW,  (looking  at  her  queerly)  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you're  used  to  it? 

RUTH,  (in  a  dead  tone)  There's  a  time  comes — when  you 
don't  mind  any  more — anything. 

ANDREW,  (looks  at  her  fixedly  for  a  moment — with  great 
pity)  I'm  sorry,  Ruth — if  I  seemed  to  blame  you.  I  didn't 
realize —  The  sight  of  Rob  lying  in  bed  there,  so  gone  to 
pieces — it  made  me  furious  at  everyone.  Forgive  me,  Ruth. 

RUTH.     There's  nothing  to  forgive.     It  doesn't  matter. 

ANDREW,  (springing  to  his  feet  again  and  pacing  up  and 
down)  Thank  God  I  came  back  before  it  was  too  late.  This 
doctor  will  know  exactly  what  to  do.  That's  the  first  thing 
to  think  of.  WThen  Rob's  on  his  feet  again  we  can  get  the 
farm  working  on  a  sound  basis  once  more.  I'll  see  to  that — 
before  I  leave. 


112  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

RUTH.     You're  going  away  again? 

ANDREW.        I've   got   tO. 

RUTH.  You  wrote  Rob  you  was  coming  back  to  stay  this 
time. 

ANDREW.  I  expected  to — until  I  got  to  New  York.  Then 
C  learned  certain  facts  that  make  it  necessary.  (With  a  short 
laugh)  To  be  candid,  Ruth,  I'm  not  the  rich  man  you've  prob 
ably  been  led  to  believe  by  my  letters — not  now.  I  was  when 
I  wrote  them.  I  made  money  hand  over  fist  as  long  as  I 
stuck  to  legitimate  trading;  but  I  wasn't  content  with  that. 
I  wanted  it  to  come  easier,  so  like  all  the  rest  of  the  idiots,  I 
tried  speculation.  Oh,  I  won  all  right !  Several  times  I've 
been  almost  a  millionaire — on  paper — and  then  come  down  to 
earth  again  with  a  bump.  Finally  the  strain  was  too  much.  I 
got  disgusted  with  myself  and  made  up  my  mind  to  get  out 
and  come  home  and  forget  it  and  really  live  again.  (He  gives 
a  harsh  laugh)  And  now  comes  the  funny  part.  The  day 
before  the  steamer  sailed  I  saw  what  I  thought  was  a  chance 
to  become  a  millionaire  again.  (He  snaps  his  fingers)  That 
easy!  I  plunged.  Then,  before  things  broke,  I  left — I  was 
so  confident  I  couldn't  be  wrong.  But  when  I  landed  in  New 
York — I  wired  you  I  had  business  to  wind  up,  didn't  I?  Well, 
it  was  the  business  that  wound  me  up !  (He  smiles  grimly ,  pac 
ing  up  and  down,  his  hands  in  his  pockets). 

RUTH,      (dully)      You   found — you'd  lost   everything? 

ANDREW,  (sitting  down  again)  Practically.  (He  takes  a 
cigar  from  his  pocket,  bites  the  end  off,  and  lights  it)  Oh,  I 
don't  mean  I'm  dead  broke.  I've  saved  ten  thousand  from  the 
wreckage,  maybe  twenty.  But  that's  a  poor  showing  for  five 
years'  hard  work.  That's  why  I'll  have  to  go  back.  (Confi- 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  113 

dently)  I  can  make  it  up  in  a  year  or  so  down  there — and  I 
don't  need  but  a  shoestring  to  start  with.  (A  weary  expression 
comes  over  his  face  and  he  sighs  heavily)  I  wish  I  didn't  have 
to.  I'm  sick  of  it  all. 

RUTH.     It's  too  bad — things  seem  to  go  wrong  so. 

ANDREW,  (shaking  off  his  depression — briskly)  They  might 
be  much  worse.  There's  enough  left  to  fix  the  farm  O.  K. 
before  I  go.  I  won't  leave  'til  Rob's  on  his  feet  again.  In 
the  meantime  I'll  make  things  fly  around  here.  (With  satis 
faction)  I  need  a  rest,  and  the  kind  of  rest  I  need  is  hard 
work  in  the  open — just  like  I  used  to  do  in  the  old  days.  (Stop 
ping  abruptly  and  lowering  his  voice  cautiously)  Not  a  word 
to  Rob  about  my  losing  money !  Remember  that,  Ruth !  You 
can  see  why.  If  he's  grown  so  touchy  he'd  never  accept  a  cent 
if  he  thought  I  was  hard  up;  see? 

RUTH.  Yes,  Andy.  (After  a  pause,  during  which  ANDREW 
puffs  at  his  cigar  abstractedly ,  his  mind  evidently  busy  with 
plans  for  the  futurer  the  bedroom  door  is  opened  and  DOCTOR 
FAWCETT  enters,  carrying  a  bag.  He  closes  the  door  quietly 
behind  him  and  comes  forward,  a  grave  expression  on  his  face. 
ANDREW  springs  out  of  his  chair). 

ANDREW.  Ah,  Doctor !  (He  pushes  a  chair  between  his  own 
and  HUTU'S)  Won't  you  have  a  chair? 

FAWCETT.  (glancing  at  his  watch)  I  must  catch  the  nine 
o'clock  back  to  the  city.  It's  imperative.  I  have  only  a  mo 
ment.  (Sitting  down  and  clearing  his  throat — in  a  perfunctory, 

impersonal  voice)  The  case  of  your  brother,  Mr.  Mayo,  is 

(He  stops  and  glances  at  RUTH  and  says  meaningly  to  ANDREW) 
Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  you  and  I 

RUTH,      (with  dogged  resentment)      I  know  what  you  mean, 


114  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

Doctor.  (Dully)  Don't  be  afraid  I  can't  stand  it.  I'm  used 
to  bearing  trouble  by  this;  and  I  can  guess  what  you've  found 
out.  (She  hesitates  for  a  moment — then  continues  in  a  monot 
onous  voice)  Rob's  going  to  die. 

ANDREW,      (angrily)     Ruth ! 

FAWCETT.  (raising  his  hand  as  if  to  command  silence)  I 
am  afraid  my  diagnosis  of  your  brother's  condition  forces  me 
to  the  same  conclusion  as  Mrs.  Mayo's. 

ANDREW,      (groaning)      But,  Doctor,  surely 

FAWCETT.  (calmly)  Your  brother  hasn't  long  to  live — 
perhaps  a  few  days,  perhaps  only  a  few  hours.  It's  a  marvel 
that  he's  alive  at  this  moment.  My  examination  revealed 
that  both  of  his  lungs  are  terribly  affected. 

ANDREW,  (brokenly)  Good  God!  (RUTH  keeps  her  eyes 
fixed  on  her  lap  in  a  trance-like  stare). 

FAWCETT.  I  am  sorry  I  have  to  tell  you  this.  If  there  was 
anything  that  could  be  done 

ANDREW.     There  isn't  anything? 

V  "V  FAWCETT.  (shaking  his  head)  It's  too  late.  Six  months 
aS°  tnere  might  have 

ANDREW,     (in  anguish)     But  if  we  were  to  take  him  to  the 

mountains — or  to   Arizona — or 

5-'  FAWCETT.  That  mighTTiave  prolonged  his  life  six  months 
ago.  (ANDREW  groans)  But  now (He  shrugs  his  shoul 
ders  significantly). 

ANDREW,  (appalled  by  a  sudden  thought)  Good  heavens, 
you  haven't  told  him  this,  have  you,  Doctor? 

FAWCETT.  No.  I  lied  to  him.  I  said  a  change  of  cli 
mate (He  looks  at  his  watch  again  nervously)  I  must 

leave  you.     (He  gets  up). 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  115 

ANDREW,  (getting  to  his  feet — insistently}  But  there  must 
still  be  some  chance 

FAWCETT.  (as  if  he  were  reassuring  a  child)  There  is  al 
ways  that  last  chance — the  miracle.  (He  puts  on  his  hat  and 
coat — bowing  to  RUTH)  Good-by,  Mrs.  Mayo. 

RUTH,      (without  raising  her  eyes — dully)     Good-by. 

ANDREW,  (mechanically)  I'll  walk  to  the  car  with  you, 
Doctor.  (They  go  out  of  the  door.  RUTH  sits  motionlessly. 
The  motor  is  heard  starting  and  the  noise  gradually  recedes  into 
the  distance.  ANDREW  re-enters  and  sits  down  in  his  chairt 
holding  his  head  in  his  hands)  Ruth!  (She  lifts  her  eyes  to 
his)  Hadn't  we  better  go  in  and  see  him?  God!  I'm  afraid 
to!  I  know  he'll  read  it  in  my  face.  (The  bedroom  door  is 
noiselessly  opened  and  ROBERT  appears  in  the  doorway.  His 
cheeks  are  flushed  with  fever,  and  his  eyes  appear  unusually 
large  and  brilliant.  ANDREW  continues  with  a  groan)  It  can't 
be,  Ruth.  It  can't  be  as  hopeless  as  he  said.  There's  always 
a  fighting  chance.  We'll  take  Rob  to  Arizona.  He's  got  to  get 
well.  There  must  be  a  chance! 

ROBERT,  (in  a  gentle  tone)  Why  must  there,  Andy?  (RUTH 
turns  and  stares  at  him  with  terrified  eyes). 

ANDREW,  (whirling  around)  Rob !  (Scoldingly)  What  are 
you  doing  out  of  bed?  (He  gets  up  and  goes  to  him)  Get 
right  back  now  and  obey  the  Doc,  or  you're  going  to  get  a 
licking  from  me! 

ROBERT,  (ignoring  these  remarks)  Help  me  over  to  the 
chair,  please,  Andy. 

ANDREW.  Like  hell  I  will !  You're  going  right  back  to  bed, 
that's  where  you're  going,  and  stay  there!  (He  takes  hold  of 
ROBERT'S  arm). 


116  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ROBERT,  (mockingly}  Stay  there  'til  I  die,  eh,  Andy? 
(Coldly}  Don't  behave  like  a  child.  I'm  sick  of  lying  down. 
I'll  be  more  rested  sitting  up.  (As  ANDREW  hesitates — vio 
lently}  I  swear  I'll  get  out  of  bed  every  time  you  put  me 
there.  You'll  have  to  sit  on  my  chest,  and  that  wouldn't  help 
my  health  any.  Come  on,  Andy.  Don't  play  the  fool.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you,  and  I'm  going  to.  (With  a  grim  smile}  A 
dying  man  has  some  rights,  hasn't  he? 

ANDREW,  (with  a  shudder}  Don't  talk  that  way,  for  God's 
sake !  I'll  only  let  you  sit  down  if  you'll  promise  that.  Re 
member.  (He  helps  ROBERT  to  the  chair  between  his  own  and 
RUTH'S)  Easy  now !  There  you  are !  Wait,  and  I'll  get  a 
pillow  for  you.  (He  goes  into  the  bedroom.  ROBERT  looks 
at  RUTH  who  shrinks  away  from  him  in  terror.  ROBERT  smiles 
bitterly.  ANDREW  comes  back  with  the  pillow  which  he  places 
behind  ROBERT'S  back)  How's  that? 

ROBERT,  (with  an  affectionate  smile)  Fine!  Thank  you! 
(As  ANDREW  sits  down}  Listen,  Andy.  You've  asked  me  not 
to  talk — and  I  won't  after  I've  made  my  position  clear.  (Slowly} 
In  the  first  place  I  know  I'm  dying.  (RUTH  bows  her  head 
and  covers  her  face  with  her  hands.  She  remains  like  this  all 
during  the  scene  between  the  two  brothers}. 

ANDREW.     Rob  !     That  isn't  so ! 

ROBERT,  (wearily}  It  is  so!  Don't  lie  to  me.  After 
Ruth  put  me  to  bed  before  you  came,  I  saw  it  clearly  for  the 
first  time.  (Bitterly)  I'd  been  making  plans  for  our  future — 
Ruth's  and  mine — so  it  came  hard  at  first — the  realization. 
Then  when  the  doctor  examined  me,  I  knew — although  he  tried 
to  lie  about  it.  And  then  to  make  sure  I  listened  at  the  door 
to  what  he  told  you.  So  don't  mock  me  with  fairy  tales  about 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  117 

Arizona,  or  any  such  rot  as  that.  Because  I'm  dying  is  no 
reason  you  should  treat  me  as  an  imbecile  or  a  coward.  Now 
that  I'm  sure  what's  happening  I  can  say  Kismet  to  it  with 
all  my  heart.  It  was  only  the  silly  uncertainty  that  hurt. 
(There  is  a  pause.  ANDREW  looks  around  in  impotent  anguish, 
not  knowing  what  to  say.  ROBERT  regards  him  with  an  af 
fectionate  smile}. 

ANDREW,  (-finally  blurts  out)  It  isn't  foolish.  You  have 
got  a  chance.  If  you  heard  all  the  Doctor  said  that  ought 
to  prove  it  to  you. 

ROBERT.  Oh,  you  mean  when  he  spoke  of  the  miracle? 
(Dryly)  I  don't  believe  in  miracles — in  my  case.  Besides,  I 
know  more  than  any  doctor  on  earth  could  know — because  I  feel 
what's  coming.  (Dismissing  the  subject)  But  we've  agreed 
not  to  talk  of  it.  Tell  me  about  yourself,  Andy.  That's  what 
I'm  interested  in.  Your  letters  were  too  brief  and  far  apart  to 
be  illuminating. 

ANDREW.     I  meant  to  write  oftener. 

ROBERT,  (with  a  faint  trace  of  irony)  I  judge  from  them 
you've  accomplished  all  you  set  out  to  do  five  years  ago? 

ANDREW.     That  isn't  much  to  boast  of. 

ROBERT,  (surprised)  Have  you  really,  honestly  reached  that 
conclusion? 

ANDREW.     Well,  it  doesn't  seem  to  amount  to  much  now. 

ROBERT.     But  you're  rich,  aren't  you? 

ANDREW,      (with  a  quick  glance  at  RUTH)      Yes,  I  s'pose  so. 

ROBERT.  I'm  glad.  You  can  do  to  the  farm  all  I've  undone. 
But  what  did  you  do  down  there?  Tell  me.  You  went  in  the 
grain  business  with  that  friend  of  yours? 

ANDREW.     Yes.     After  two  years  I  had  a  share  in  it.     I  sold 


118  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

out  last  year.  (He  is  answering  ROBERT'S  questions  with  great 
reluctance}. 

ROBERT.     And  then? 

ANDREW.     I   went  in  on  my   own. 

ROBERT.     Still  in  grain? 

ANDREW.     Yes. 

ROBERT.  What's  the  matter?  You  look  as  if  I  were  accusing 
you  of  something. 

ANDREW.  I'm  proud  enough  of  the  first  four  years.  It's 
after  that  I'm  not  boasting  of.  I  took  to  speculating. 

ROBERT.     In  wheat? 

ANDREW.     Yes. 

ROBERT.     And  you  made  money — gambling? 

ANDREW.     Yes. 


ROBERT,  (thoughtfully)  I've  been  wondering  what  the  great 
change  was  in  you.  (After  a  pause)  You — a  farmer — to 
gamble  in  a  wheat  pit  with  scraps  of  paper.  There's  a  spiritual 
significance  in  that  picture,  Andy.  (He  smiles  bitterly)  I'm 
a  failure,  and  Ruth's  another — but  we  can  both  justly  lay 
some  of  the  blame  for  our  stumbling  on  God.  But  you're  the 
deepest-dyed  failure  of  the  three,  Andy.  You've  spent  eight 
years  running  away  from  yourself.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean? 
You  used  to  be  a  creator  when  you  loved  the  farm.  You  and 

life    were    in    harmonious    partnership.      And    now (He 

stops  as  if  seeking  vainly  for  words)      My  brain  is  muddled. 
But  part  of  what  I  mean  is  that  your  gambling  with  the  thing 

you  used  to  love  to  create  proves  how  far  astray So  you'll 

be  punished.     You'll  have  to  suffer  to  win  back (His  voice 

A        grows  weaker  and  he  sighs  wearily)     It's  no  use.     I  can't  say 

Iit.     (He  lies  back  and  closes  his  eyeSj  breathing  pantingly). 
bJfrtsL  (uv^#*- 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  119 


ANDREW,  (slowly)  I  think  I  know  what  you're  driving  at, 
Rob — and  it's  true,  I  guess.  (ROBERT  smiles  gratefully  and 
stretches  out  his  hand,  which  ANDREW  takes  in  his). 

ROBERT.  I  want  you  to  promise  me  to  do  one  thing,  Andy, 
after 

ANDREW.     I'll  promise  anything,  as  God  is  my  Judge ! 

ROBERT.  Remember,  Andy,  Ruth  has  suffered  double  her 
share.  (His  voice  faltering  with  weakness)  Only  through 
contact  with  suffering,  Andy,  will  you — awaken.  Listen.  You 
must  marry  Ruth — afterwards. 

RUTH,  (with  a  cry)  Rob !  (ROBERT  lies  back,  his  eyes 
closed,  gasping  heavily  for  breath). 

ANDREW,  (making  signs  to  her  to  humor  him — gently) 
You're  tired  out,  Rob.  You  better  lie  down  and  rest  a  while, 
don't  you  think?  We  can  talk  later  on. 

ROBERT,  (with  a  mocking  smile)  Later  on !  You  always 
were  an  optimist,  Andy!  (He  sighs  with  exhaustion)  Yes,  I'll 
go  and  rest  a  while.  (As  ANDREW  comes  to  help  him)  It  must 
be  near  sunrise,  isn't  it? 

ANDREW.     It's   after   six. 

ROBERT.  (As  ANDREW  helps  him  into  the  bedroom)  Shut 
the  door,  Andy.  I  want  to  be  alone.  (ANDREW  reappears  and 
shuts  the  door  softly.  He  comes  and  sits  down  on  his  chair 
again,  supporting  his  head  on  his  hands.  His  face  is  drawn 
with  the  intensity  of  his  dry-eyed  anguish). 

RUTH,  (glancing  at  him — fearfully)  He's  out  of  his  mind 
now,  isn't  he? 

ANDREW.  He  may  be  a  little  delirious.  The  fever  would 
do  that.  {With  impotent  rage)  God,  what  a  shame!  And 


120  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

there's  nothing  we  can  do  but  sit  and — wait !  {He  springs 
from  his  chair  and  walks  to  the  stove). 

RUTH,  (dully)  He  was  talking — wild — like  he  used  to — 
only  this  time  it  sounded — unnatural,  don't  you  think? 

ANDREW.  I  don't  know.  The  things  he  said  to  me  had  truth 
in  them — even  if  he  did  talk  them  way  up  in  the  air,  like  he 

always  sees  things.  Still (He  glances  down  at  RUTH 

keenly)  Why  do  you  suppose  he  wanted  us  to  promise  we'd 

(Confusedly)  You  know  what  he  said. 

RUTH,      (dully)     His  mind  was  wandering,  I  s'pose. 

ANDREW,  (with  conviction)  No — there  was  something  back 
of  it. 

RUTH.  He  wanted  to  make  sure  I'd  be  all  right — after  he'd 
gone,  I  expect. 

ANDREW.  No,  it  wasn't  that.  He  knows  very  well  I'd  nat 
urally  look  after  you  without — anything  like  that. 

RUTH.  He  might  be  thinking  of — something  happened  five 
years  back,  the  time  you  came  home  from  the  trip. 

ANDREW.     What  happened?     What  do  you  mean? 

RUTH,      (dully)     We  had  a  fight. 

ANDREW.     A  fight?     What  has  that  to  do  with  me? 

RUTH.     It   was    about   you — in    a   way. 

ANDREW,      (amazed)      About  me? 

RUTH.  Yes,  mostly.  You  see  I'd  found  out  I'd  made  a  mis 
take  about  Rob  soon  after  we  were  married — when  it  was  too 
late. 

ANDREW.  Mistake?  (Slowly)  You  mean — you  found  out 
you  didn't  love  Rob? 

RUTH.     Yes. 

ANDREW.     Good  God! 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  121 

RUTH.  And  then  I  thought  that  when  Mary  came  it'd  be 
different,  and  I'd  love  him;  but  it  didn't  happen  that  way. 
And  I  couldn't  bear  with  his  blundering  and  book-reading — 
and  I  grew  to  hate  him,  almost. 

ANDREW.     Ruth ! 

RUTH.  I  couldn't  help  it.  No  woman  could.  It  had  to  be 
because  I  loved  someone  else,  I'd  found  out.  (She  sighs 
wearily)  It  can't  do  no  harm  to  tell  you  now — when  it's  all 
past  and  gone — and  dead.  You  were  the  one  I  really  loved — 
only  I  didn't  come  to  the  knowledge  of  it  'til  too  late. 

ANDREW,  (stunned)  Ruth !  Do  you  know  what  you're  say 
ing? 

RUTH.  It  was  true — then.  (With  sudden  fierceness)  How 
could  I  help  it?  No  woman  could. 

ANDREW.     Then — you  loved  me — that  time  I  came  home? 

RUTH,  (doggedly)  I'd  known  your  real  reason  for  leaving 
home  the  first  time — everybody  knew  it — and  for  three  years 
I'd  been  thinking— 

ANDREW.     That  I  loved  you? 

RUTH.  Yes.  Then  that  day  on  the  hill  you  laughed  about 
what  a  fool  you'd  been  for  loving  me  once — and  I  knew  it 
was  all  over. 

ANDREW.  Good  God,  but  I  never  thought —  (He  stops, 

shuddering  at  his  remembrance)  And  did  Rob — 

RUTH.  That  was  what  I'd  started  to  tell.  We'd  had  a 
fight  just  before  you  came  and  I  got  crazy  mad — and  I  told 
him  all  I've  told  you. 

ANDREW,  (gaping  at  her  speechlessly  for  a  moment)  You 
told  Rob — you  loved  me? 

RUTH.     Yes. 


122  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ANDREW,  (shrinking  away  from  her  in  horror)  You — you 
— you  mad  fool,  you !  How  could  you  do  such  a  thing  ? 

RUTH.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I'd  got  to  the  end  of  bearing 
things — without  talking. 

ANDREW.  Then  Rob  must  have  known  every  moment  I 
stayed  here !  And  yet  he  never  said  or  showed — God,  how 
he  must  have  suffered!  Didn't  you  know  how  much  he  loved 
you? 

RUTH,     (dully)     Yes.     I  knew  he  liked  me. 

ANDREW.  Liked  you!  What  kind  of  a  woman  are  you? 
Couldn't  you  have  kept  silent?  Did  you  have  to  torture  him? 
No  wonder  he's  dying!  And  you've  lived  together  for  five 
years  with  this  between  you? 

RUTH.     We've  lived  in  the  same  house. 

ANDREW.     Does  he  still  think 

RUTH.  I  don't  know.  We've  never  spoke  a  word  about  it 
since  that  day.  Maybe,  from  the  way  he  went  on,  he  s'poses 
I  care  for  you  yet. 

ANDREW.  But  you  don't.  It's  outrageous.  It's  stupid!  You 
don't  love  me ! 

RUTH,  (slowly)  I  wouldn't  know  how  to  feel  love,  even  if 
I  tried,  any  more. 

ANDREW,  (brutally)  And  I  don't  love  you,  that's  sure! 
(He  sinks  into  his  chair,  his  head  between  his  hands)  It's 
damnable  such  a  thing  should  be  between  Rob  and  me.  Why, 
I  love  Rob  bettcr'n  anybody  in  the  world  and  always  did. 
There  isn't  a  thing  on  God's  green  earth  I  wouldn't  have  done 
to  keep  trouble  away  from  him.  And  I  have  to  be  the  very 
one — it's  damnable!  How  am  I  going  to  face  him  again? 
What  can  I  say  to  him  now?  (He  groans  with  anguished 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  123 

rage.  After  a  pause)  He  asked  me  to  promise — what  am  I 
going  to  do? 

RUTH.  You  can  promise — so's  it'll  ease  his  mind — and  not 
mean  anything. 

ANDREW.  What?  Lie  to  him  now — when  he's  dying?  (De 
terminedly}  No!  It's  you  who'll  have  to  do  the  lying,  since 
it  must  be  done.  You've  got  a  chance  now  to  undo  some  of 
alljthe  sufferfaf  YfflTYfi  brought  on  Rob,  fio  in  to  him !  Tell 
him  you  never  loved  me — it  was  all  a  mistake.  Tell  him  you 
only  said  so  because  you  were  mad  and  didn't  know  what  you 
were  saying!  Tell  him  something,  anything,  that'll  bring  him 
peace ! 

RUTH,      (dully}      He   wouldn't   believe  me. 

ANDREW,  (furiously)  You've  got  to  make  him  believe  you, 
do  you  hear?  You've  got  to — now — hurry — you  never  know 
when  it  may  be  too  late.  (As  she  hesitates — imploringly) 
For  God's  sake,  Ruth!  Don't  you  see  you  owe  it  to  him? 
You'll  never  forgive  yourself  if  you  don't. 

RUTH,  (dully)  I'll  go.  (She  gets  wearily  to  her  feet  and 
walks  slowly  toward  the  bedroom)  But  it  won't  do  any  good. 
(ANDREW'S  eyes  are  fixed  on  her  anxiously.  She  opens  the  door 
and  steps  inside  the  room.  She  remains  standing  there  for  a 
minute.  Then  she  calls  in  a  frightened  voice)  Rob !  Where 
are  you?  (Then  she  hurries  back,  trembling  with  fright) 
Andy !  Andy  !  He's  gone ! 

ANDREW,  (misunderstanding  her — his  face  pale  with  dread) 
He's  not 

RUTH,  (interrupting  him — hysterically)  He's  gone !  The 
bed's  empty.  The  window's  wide  open.  He  must  have  crawled 
out  into  the  yard ! 


124  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ANDREW,  (springing  to  his  feet.  He  rushes  into  the  bed 
room  and  returns  immediately  with  an  expression  of  alarmed 
amazement  on  his  face)  Come!  He  can't  have  gone  far! 
(Grabbing  his  hat  he  takes  RUTH'S  arm  and  shoves  her  toward 
the  door)  Come  on!  (Opening  the  door)  Let's  hope  to 

God (The  door  closes  behind  them,  cutting  off  his  words 

as 

(The  Curtain  Falls) 


ACT  THREE 

SCENE  Two 

Same  as  Act  One,  Scene  One — A  section  of  country  high 
way.  The  sky  to  the  east  is  already  alight  with  bright 
color  and  a  thin,  quivering  line  of  flame  is  spreading  slowly 
along  the  horizon  rim  of  the  dark  hills.  The  roadside,  how 
ever,  is  still  steeped  in  the  grayness  of  the  dawn,  shadowy  and 
vague.  The  field  in  the  foreground  has  a  wild  uncultivated 
appearance  as  if  it  had  been  allowed  to  remain  fallow  the 
preceding  summer.  Parts  of  the  snake-fence  in  the  rear  have 
been  broken  down.  The  apple  tree  is  leafless  and  seems  dead. 

ROBERT  staggers  weakly  in  from  the  left.  He  stumbles  into 
the  ditch  and  lies  there  for  a  moment;  then  crawls  with  a  great 
effort  to  the  top  of  the  bank  where  he  can  see  the  sun  rise,  and 
collapses  weakly.  RUTH  and  ANDREW  come  hurriedly  along  the 
road  from  the  left. 

ANDREW,  (stopping  and  looking  about  him)  There  he  is! 
I  knew  it !  I  knew  we'd  find  him  here. 

ROBERT,  (trying  to  raise  himself  to  a  sitting  position  as  they 
hasten  to  his  side — with  a  wan  smile)  I  thought  I'd  given 
you  the  slip. 

ANDREW,  (with  kindly  bullying)  Well  you  didn't,  you  old 
scoundrel,  and  we're  going  to  take  you  right  back  where  you 

belong — in  bed.      (He  makes  a  motion  to  lift  ROBERT). 

125 


126  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

ROBERT.     Don't,  Andy.     Don't,  I  tell  you! 

ANDREW.     You're  in  pain? 

ROBERT,  (simply)  No.  I'm  dying.  (He  falls  back  weakly. 
RUTH  sinks  down  beside  him  with  a  sob  and  pillows  his  head 
on  her  lap.  ANDREW  stands  looking  down  at  him  helplessly. 
ROBERT  moves  his  head  restlessly  on  RUTH'S  lap)  I  couldn't 
stand  it  back  there  in  the  room.  It  seemed  as  if  all  my  life 
• — I'd  been  cooped  in  a  room.  So  I  thought  I'd  try  to  end  as 

I  might  have — if   I'd  had  the  courage — alone — in   a  ditch  by 
Oi 

the  open  road — watching  the   sun   rise. 

ANDREW.  Rob !  Don't  talk.  You're  wasting  your  strength. 
Rest  a  while  and  then  we'll  carry  you 

ROBERT.  Still  hoping,  Andy?  Don't.  I  know.  (There  is 
a  pause  during  which  he  breathes  heavily,  straining  his  eyes 
toward  the  horizon)  The  sun  comes  so  slowly.  (With  an 
ironical  smile)  The  doctor  told  me  to  go  to  the  far-off  places 
— and  I'd  be  cured.  He  was  right.  That  was  always  the 

cure  for  me.  It's  too  late — for  this  life — but (He  has  a 

fit  of  coughing  which  racks  his  body). 

ANDREW,  (with  a  hoarse  sob)  Rob !  (He  clenches  his  fists 
in  an  impotent  rage  against  Fate)  God !  God !  (RUTH  sobs 
brokenly  and  wipes  ROBERT'S  lips  with  her  handkerchief). 

ROBERT,  (in  a  voice  which  is  suddenly  ringing  with  the 
happiness  of  hope)  You  mustn't  feel  sorry  for  me.  Don't 
you  see  I'm  happy  at  last — free — free  ! — freed  from  the  farm 
— free  to  wander  on  and  on — eternally !  (He  raises  himself 
on  his  elbow,  his  face  radiant,  and  points  to  the  horizon)  Look! 
Isn't  it  beautiful  beyond  the  hills?  I  can  hear  the  old  voices 

calling  me  to  come (Exultantly)  And  this  time  I'm  go- 

ing!  It  isn't  the  end.  It's  a  free  beginning — the  start  of  my 


BEYOND  THE  HORIZON  127 

voyage !  I've  won  to  my  trip — the  right  of  release — beyond 
the  horizon !  Oh,  you  ought  to  be  glad — glad — for  my  sake ! 
(He  collapses  weakly}  Andy!  (ANDREW  bends  down  to  him) 
Remember  Ruth 

ANDREW.     I'll  take  care  of  her,  I  swear  to  you,  Rob ! 

ROBERT.  Ruth  has  suffered — remember,  Andy — only  through 

sacrifice — the  secret  beyond  there (He  suddenly  raises 

himself  with  his  last  remaining  strength  and  points  to  the  horizon 
where  the  edge  of  the  sun's  disc  is  rising  from  the  rim  of  the 
hills)  The  sun !  (H e  remains  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  it  for  a 
moment.  A  rattling  noise  throbs  from  his  throat.  He  mumbles) 
Remember!  (And  falls  back  and  is  still.  RUTH  gives  a  cry 
of  horror  and  springs  to  her  feet,  shuddering,  her  hands  over 
her  eyes.  ANDREW  bends  on  one  knee  beside  the  body,  placing 
a  hand  over  ROBERT'S  heart,  then  he  kisses  his  brother  rev 
erentially  on  the  forehead  and  stands  up). 

ANDREW,  (facing  RUTH,  the  body  between  them — in  a  dead 
voice)  He's  dead.  (JVith  a  sudden  burst  of  fury)  God  damn 
you,  you  never  told  him ! 

RUTH,  (piteously)  He  was  so  happy  without  my  lying  to 
him. 

ANDREW,  (pointing  to  the  body — trembling  with  the  violence 
of  his  rage)  This  is  your  doing,  you  damn  woman,  you  coward, 
you  murderessl_ 

RUTH,  (sobbing)  Don't,  Andy !  I  couldn't  help  it — and 
he  knew  how  I'd  suffered,  too.  He  told  you — to  remember. 

ANDREW,  (stares  at  her  for  a  moment,  his  rage  ebbing  away, 
an  expression  of  deep  pity  gradually  coming  over  his  face. 
Then  he  glances  down  at  his  brother  and  speaks  brokenly  in  a 
compassionate  voice)  Forgive  me.  Ruth — for  his  sake — and 


128  PLAYS  OF  EUGENE  O'NEILL 

I'll  remember (RUTH  lets  her  hands  fall  from   her  face 

and  looks  at  him  uncomprehendingly.  He  lifts  his  eyes  to  hers 
and  forces  out  falteringly)  I — you — we've  both  made  a  mess 
of  things !  We  must  try  to  help  each  other — and — in  time — 
we'll  come  to  know  what's  right (Desperately)  And  per 
haps  we (But  RUTH,  if  she  is  aware  of  his  words,  gives 

no  sign.  She  remains  silent,  gazing  at  him  dully  with  the  sad 
humility  of  exhaustion,  her  mind  already  sinking  back  into  that 
spent  calm  beyond  the  further  troubling  of  any  hope). 

(The  Curtain  Falls) 


The  Plays  by 

EUGENE  O'NEILL 

in  this  series  are: 

THE  EMPEROR  JONES 75c. 

BEYOND  THE  HORIZON 75c. 

WHERE  THE  CROSS  Is  MADE 35c. 

IN  THE  ZONE 35c. 

ILE  .  35c. 


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